Fairytale
by iam97
Summary: Today, when Katniss enters the forest, there's a cry. A cry for help. And help is what the strange boy with the blond curls needs more than anything else. AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So...This story came to me and wouldn't go away. It was so persistent...I had to write it down. It is an AU (no Games), it takes place in the past and the village's name is District twelve, otherwise it's not like the book District twelve. When I had the idea for this story it reminded me of a fairytale. It isn't written like one (no 'Once upon the time', not really a story for children), though, don't worry.  
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**I am aware I have another story (and I haven't forgotten about it), but I have kind of a writer's block right now and this will hopefully help me to get over it.  
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**(Full) Summary: **She goes there every night. It's quiet, always, except for the rustling of the leaves in the wind and her quiet breath. But not today. Becuase today, when Katniss enters the forest, there's a cry. A cry for help. And help is what the boy with the blond curls needs more than anything else of.

**Genre: **Romance, Drama

**Rating: **T

**POV: **Third POV, Katniss

**Warnings:** Possible violence in later chapters. That's what I rated this thing T for, but not much to be cautious.  
There will be spelling and grammar errors and I apologize for them. The reason is simply that English is not my mother tongue.

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of the Hunger Games.**

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Prlougue:

One last light is switched off, one last candle blown out. The whole village is left to the black darkness of the night. The frontdoor of the hut at the very edge of the same village opens without making a sound, having been oiled recently. A dark figure, about five feet tall, steps out and shuts the door just as quietly, making sure the other residents won't startle out of their sleep and notice her absence.

The girl turns her head to the left and the right, her gray eyes flashing in the silver light of the moon, before she takes off into a direction away from her home. She's heading to the dark forest, with no fear in her eyes, not like one would expect it from a young girl.

But she isn't like other girls. As she passes the dirty road and the small amount of water that has been accumulating next to the sidewalk ever since the young girl can remember, she thinks of tonight's doldrums, wondering if this night will be more profitable than the ones last month; in April there had been too much wind and her prey had been able to smell her from a mile away. They'd had to go without meat for a month. And they'd already been only skin and bones before. The winter had been the toughest Katniss could remember.

But with the change of weather she is confident it's going to get better. They're not going to have to starve for yet another month. Because there's something special about her. She's a huntress. She can take out even roes with a bow and an arrow. She's a survivor. She's been keeping her family alive since she was eleven. And seen as she's now sixteen, that is quite an accomplishment.

But all she can do is sigh now. Sigh and blink a lone tear away, one of those left, one of the persistent kind, one that won't go away. A drop of water she wouldn't show anybody. Has it actually been so long since she last heard the voice of her father? Or heard him snoring while she was laying next to his sleeping form after a nightmare? His laugh, which came from the bottom of his heart, a laugh incomparable to any other she's ever heard, where is it now?

She knows it. He's up in heaven, that is, if heaven exists. After everything that has happened to her family and her village, Katniss isn't too sure about it. But she's hoping, and wherever her father is now, it must be a better place, a place just like him. Beautiful, bright, full of blooming flowers, greening trees, and a sparkling, clear blue lake right in the middle. Katniss often imagines him sitting there, his feet dangling in the water, singing to the birds. And then smiling when they mimic his voice, listening to the sound of nature.

At least that's how his daughter remembers him when she thinks of him in his happy times. And it's such a peaceful picture, even in disturbing times when she wishes nothing more than to vanish in a deep hole and hide from the cruel world she's forced to live in, that she doesn't want to lose it. That's what he deserves. Nothing less.

Soon Katniss reaches the far end of the meadow, which separates the village from the forest and with that the people from freedom, because no one, not even the otherwise fearless huntress, dares to cross it in daylight, afraid of the guards. Guards who are sent by the ruler of the small village Katniss is living in. Their swayer is called the 'witch' by the people who live in the Seam, where the huntress belongs. She got this nickname after she took over, after her husband mysteriously died because of some illness. At least that is what was declared by said woman. Secretly Katniss believes the good man who once was their monarch was poisoned by his power-hungry wife, now widow. And she also believes she isn't the only one. Why else would the mighty woman's nickname be 'witch'?

Not that anyone would dare saying it out loud. No, they use it in whispers, at dawn when the sun barely reaches the horizon and in the evening, when the great orange ball has already set. And not where everyone can see them, either. Only in an old, supposed to be empty, warehouse where some trader built the black market, and which is known as the Hob.

The frown Katniss always wears only deepens when she thinks of the way things used to be. Before the good Lord was murdered, while he was still being in power. Poverty, starvation and hunger weren't uncommon problems, but they weren't as distinctive as they are now. In almost every house Katniss sees when she walks through the Seam with her sister are children with hollow, sunken cheeks and countable ribs. Either looking out of the window with their hopeless, dull eyes, or scraping in the mud, trying to find something edible to fill their empty stomachs.

When she was young, of course, an entirely different image would be captured by anyone passing the town square. Katniss would see the other children playing on the streets, carefree smiles on their faces and shining eyes. They were thin, maybe thinner than they should be, but they were happy, their stomachs were filled and their parents could afford to give them more. Katniss used to be like them. True, she would follow her father into the woods more often than playing with the other kids, but she wore the same expression, her heart didn't feel heavy but light and when she didn't have to carry the weight of her family's lives on her shoulders. She didn't have to suffer the fate of a much older person. And most importantly, she wasn't so lonely, so horribly, incredibly lonely.

The guards came with the first rays of the sun hitting the pavement, which is worn out at a rate where it can't be called one anymore. Her father never took her to the forest at night, so Katniss had been snuggled up in her covers that very morning. She always wonders what would have happened if she'd been there. She knows most likely she would've been killed, too, but there's a faint voice, the voice of guilt that has been tearing at her heart every day since the darkest dawn the human race could remember, and this voice whispers to her in her sleep, telling her how maybe, maybe she could have helped him, distracted the guards. Or maybe they would have gone home earlier and they wouldn't have been found, their hunting wouldn't have been discovered.

Katniss still suffers because of her thoughts about not having been there, even if she wouldn't tell anyone. She wouldn't put this weight onto her already fragile, small sister, a girl who'd already suffered too much in her young life. No, Katniss would do anything to make it easier for her, would do anything to keep the happy smile on Prim's face. Not carefree; the little girl isn't stupid, she knows what is happening, she knows where her sister goes every night, but that doesn't prevent her from being the kind, bright girl she is.

Now there would be, no, should be her mother, but Katniss knows it'd be useless. Her mother can't help herself, let alone anyone else. Including her daughters. And one of them just can't forgive her. She left them after her husband died, forced them to take care of themselves at the ages of eleven and seven. Katniss can't find a way to be OK with that, and she's given up on trying a long time ago. She only knows this woman is her mother, had once been the girl her father fell in love with, and is part of her family. So naturally, Katniss is feeding her, too.

As soon as Katniss is hidden behind the trees, hidden from the view of the people and the earth, she lets out a long breath. In the cold air the late hour causes it comes out as a white ball, and it looks like a miniature cloud. As a kid Katniss loved them. She would always try to form sheep and her young mind, which had much more fantasy and still possessed the power of imagination, unlike her old self, could let everything look like a sheep. She'd been so cheerful and playful back then; sometimes even Katniss finds it hard to believe what she's become.

She arrives at the vacant tree trunk where her father always hid his weapons. Katniss has taken over his old habit. She thinks she remembers her father telling her this is a place even her ancestors, such as greatgreatgreatgrandfathers used. Hunting is something her family has always done, and that is one of the few things Katniss can honestly say she's proud of. Hunting and Prim; the last and only things Katniss still receives joy from.

Her feet still for a moment. She breathes in, long and deep, wanting to take in the fresh air and the familiar smell of wood and fir needles. They make her feel home and at ease. Make her feel free, even if only for the time she's out here. With every piece of forest air that fills her lungs her frown eases, until it is fully replaced by a smile. A small smile, barely an upturning of her lip's corners, but Katniss is like that. There are no grins, smirks or full hearted laughs. There is only what she has now, when she's relaxed and completely in her element.

But then her muscles flex immediately as she senses a slight change in her surroundings. It's her hunter's instinct. Her body reacts before her mind does. Her eyes narrow to slits, and she scans every tree and every bush for any signs of an intruder. Judging by the noise it made it must be something big, like a deer or a wild boar. A spark of determination and the delight of spotting such a lucrative catch glints in the huntress' eyes.

In the blink of an eye one of her arrows has made it from her quiver to her bow and she's pulling the string, directing her weapon at the course the noise is coming from.

And just as fast she lets it fly. But not because the creatue she wants to make enough money for a month with comes into her view. Becuase it wasn't an animal causing the sound that alarmed her. Because if it had been an animal it wouldn't have been able to command a language now. It wouldn't be forming words. And it wouldn't be calling for help.

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**I know, I know, it's short. But, as you can see above, this is only the prologue. The actual chapters will be 3,000-5,000 words, never shorter than 3,000. **

**Well, that is if you think I should continue. Do you?  
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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you for all your wonderful reviews, they really made my day!  
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**Since I only gave you the prologue so far, and nothing really happened, I decided to update this story with the first chapter first. Enjoy!  
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**Chapter 1:  
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Katniss knows she has only seconds to decide whether to make the heroic choice, go an save the intruder from whatever is threatening him, or just pretend not to be there, turn around, run and continue her life as if she'd never heard it.

Strangely, maybe because of her earlier thoughts this night, she can't bring herself to choose the latter, easier one. Maybe this person, whose cries are now strangled and distorted with pain, is to someone what Katniss' father was to her. Whoever it is illegally out here, and the possibility of him being here with the same intention as the huntress can't be ruled out, he may have a family that needs him.

So, despite knowing the dangers, ignoring the inner, cowardly voice she wishes didn't exist, she moves forward, following the voice and the noises of whatever is causing this man to wail in desperation like this.

Katniss, however, is careful not to make her presence known. Being the girl she is, this isn't a new challenge for her, and one she can master easily. While slinking through the scrub she's loading her bow again and pulling the string back again, this time sure to hit her target once she finds it. And she's certain she will.

But then she almost drops everything she holding when the source of the sounds come into her view. The sight isn't what she expected; an animal baring its teeth, making it look more terrifying in the rays of moonlight that sneak their through the thick leaf canopy, or perhaps someone who got caught up in one of her snares and is being "guarded" by a wild dog. But it's neither.

And nothing could have prepared her for what is happening before her very eyes right at this moment. If Katniss had to choose one word to express what is going, she wouldn't have difficulty for once. Horrific.

What presents itself there, only a few feet away from her, makes the huntress' stomach turn. She's killed multiple animals, skinned and gutted them without so much as batting an eye. That's no problem for her. But Katniss always leaves humans to her sister; Prim is the healer, after all. There is also the fact that she absolutely hates injuries; killing is much easier.

But there is no Prim to save the man in front of her now. Or more like, what is left of him. Even in the dim light Katniss can make out the pool of blood which is forming on the forest floor, coloring the usually green grass a deep red. The liquid is literally streaming from the wounds, especially from the gaping hole where the patch of flesh that must once have been half his calf is missing. There's so much blood the girl can literally taste its stale, rusty smell when on her tongue. The boy's eyes alternate between fluttering close and, with much determination and effort on his part, being torn open. When his tired, battle-weary orbs, which must have held a shining, bright blue once, fall on her silhouette, there's a tiny, short-lived flash of hope glinting in them before his eyelids shut again. He's nearing unconsciousness; his cries and calls have stopped around the time the girl arrived here, and it's only a matter of time until the long vines death calls its fingers will close around him.

This realization lets her recover from her shock and without further hesitating, she lets the string go and the arrow that may save the boy's life pierces the brain of the wolf hovering above him. After a second of not moving at all, a second where the world seems to stand still, its body drops with its heavy weight onto the boy's, dead.

Katniss wastes no time staring at her kill. She can collect it later, if it's still there and not eaten by other hungry predators by then. But the money she would earn for the wolf is the girl's last concern right now.

She rushes over to the bodies and jerks the animal's off the human's. Katniss isn't very strong, but the adrenaline that comes with her want to keep this man alive equates this little weakness. Her gray eyes aren't met with the blue ones she'd hoped to see, only with the eyelids of their owner. She isn't sure if the idea that comes to her is the best one; it would be another slight damage to this already at the end of his ropes person, but decides it won't matter anyway. It's not like she has another solution.

"Hey!", she calls and slaps his cheek. Despite telling herself it's the best, she winces at the smacking sound it makes. "Do you hear me? You need to wake up!"

At the sound of her voice his lids lift just the tiniest bit, only enough for her to see the blue again. She doesn't expect him to reply; he seems far too gone to do so. She's only hoping she's going to get him to come with her. Somehow.

So naturally, especially in her tense state, she jumps when his lips open. "Are you an angel?"

Katniss has trouble understanding his breathed words, but when she puzzles them to a sense-making sentence, she shortly notes how far he must have drifted off to think of her as an angel. But her slight amusement is quickly replaced by sorrow. He believes that he's dead already. Is it even possible to save his life now?

"No I'm not. You're still alive, do you understand?" He mumbles something incoherent, but Katniss takes it as a yes, not wanting to make him talk more than absolutely necessary. It'd only weaken him even more.

"Is there any way you can walk?" She's talking in a loud voice and it feels somehow wrong. She never converses out here. But she can't afford to be quiet right now. He needs to hear her. She realizes how lucky they both are that they speak the same language.

She studies him for any signs of reaction and from the slight shake he's giving his head, the huntress sighs relieved. It's a nod.

But her relief only last for so long. Only until she realizes there's only one leg left for him to walk on, and from the way his lids are dropping she bets he's only seconds from being pulled into unconsciousness again.

Panic curses through her at that; how can she be sure she's going to be able to wake him again? She's afraid he might sleep forever if he lets the darkness consume him now.

"Wait a second," she tells him. He's leaning on a tree, a tree which can come very handy now. Two branches, roughly the same size, but Katniss really can't be picky, are quickly ripped off by the girl.

"Use them as crutches." They're improvised. They're not good. They won't help much, she is aware of that. But it's better than nothing, and nothing is the alternative.

But who would have thought of this? Katniss surely not. She has never encountered anyone out here, except for Gale Hawthorne. Both their fathers had gotten caught on the faithful day which changed their lives forever. They'd been hunting partners at night, how she discovered. Just like her and Gale. Well, they used to be. Until he started working. Now he only goes hunting on Sundays; the only days he doesn't have to rest after drudging from dawn to sunset.

If only this had happened on a Sunday, or a year ago. Or better yet, not at all. But if I had been one of the former cases, at least Gale would have been there to help her.

Luckily they're not very far away from the meadow and with that, the village and her sister, who can treat him. But Katniss is afraid the boy is too weak to make it there. She knows she will have to be -literally- the shoulder he can lean on, but she's isn't sure his weight isn't going to crush her. Judging by what he looks like -unkempt, dirty, shaggy hair, mud and grass stains on his clothes, scratches on his upper arms and not to mention his calf- he's lived in the forest for quite a few days. Before he came there, Katniss thinks, he must have been quite well-fed. Not plump, hidden under his skin she can still see the muscles, which make her just the slightest tad more confident about the crutches, but she can't imagine him ever having had to go to bed with an empty stomach, like she had countless times.

But he must be thinner now than he was back then, but he would weigh even less if her assumption wasn't the case. His cheeks show the first signs of hollowness, though, and if he stood next to Gale, Katniss is sure this boy would draw the short straw.

However, both of them are men. Built differently than Katniss, and she has to add her shortness to it. Even in his damaged condition, he still has easily fifty pounds on her.

The huntress, tough as ever, shakes her mind off those discouraging thoughts. They'll get her nowhere. She's hauled fawns before; it shouldn't be that different.

Spontaneous she grabs him by his armpits, making his struggle to get off the ground easier. For a second his eyes open completely and she senses something in them that has been missing the whole time; life. The corners of his lips lift, just like hers would, only they don't stop. He bares his teeth while smiling -she shortly wonders how he managed to keep them white- and Katniss can't help but notice how it brightens his whole face. He must be very handsome when he isn't minutes away from death.

She supposes this smile is his way of saying thank you. She shudders when she imagines how hard talking must be for him if he already has to draw on the simplest form of communication. A wave of guilt splashes through her when she realizes her feisty slap might have something to do with it.

Of course it takes them time, willpower and Katniss has to work as a third crutch and steady his waist more than once. His strength, especially in this state, is impressive though. The branches help; he's able to make it halfway through the meadow with those before his arms don't follow his wishes at all anymore. At first she thinks he just needs a short break to breath again; they'd waited a bit whenever his panting got to fast and desperate. Thus Katniss can barely react fast enough now. She catches him just before his body hits the ground.

Now she's the one to inhale long yet sharply. _You can do it_, she tells herself. Pretend he's a fawn and will bring you a bunch of money.

"Alright, try to make yourself as light as possible. We're almost there. You've almost made it."

She can tell he's really trying his best, pushing up from the ground with his good leg every time he gets the opportunity, but it's just not enough. Breathing heavily Katniss sets him down.

"My house is over there." She points at the dark silhouette of her house. It looks like a shadow; the full moon giving him a shape. In the night of the new moon even the huntress' trained eyes can't find it and she depends completely on her instincts. She thanks her lucky stars that at least one thing isn't going wrong tonight. "Do you think you can use the crutches again? I'll help, too, I promise."

Thankfully he's kept them with him; otherwise Katniss would have to go get help now, and she doesn't want to wake her neighbors. She doesn't really trust them to be fast enough either; every second counts, for he's still bleeding horribly. Katniss silently curses herself for not having made some kind of bandage to prevent it from spilling the way it is. But then again she feels her stomach turn only thinking of touching the red flesh that once was a human leg.

Somehow, scraping together their last straws of strength and willpower, they finally manage to stumble through the door of Katniss' home. Although the noise probably already startled Prim and her mother awake, the girl, who is carefully placing the body she has half carried half dragged to her home on the table patients are usually treated on, calls out for them anyway. Tells them to come down.

Her mother has been a healer once, and Katniss knows she still is. On a good day she can take care of them. She's in her own world when she's working and it seems to make her forget everything else. That is if she comes out of her bed.

Relief fills her as she hears a pair of footsteps coming from the room next to the one she's in. She knows they'll take over from now and she can wash herself off the already dry blood that's sticking to her skin as well as her clothes.

"Katniss!" Prim shrieks. "What…?" Then her eyes fall onto the table and widen for a second. "What happened? Who is this?" She sounds alarmed. True, she's seen worse before, but not in the middle of the night, not brought home by her sister.

Said sister, on the other hand, is looking at Prim with urgency in her eyes. "I don't know. It doesn't matter now. He's dying."

The younger girl nods. "Right. Go get mom. Tell her she's needed, and tell her to bring the strongest herbs and bandage we have."

But she doesn't need to. To her surprise, her mother bursts through the door the second a strangled cry leaves the patient's mouth.

She notices her daughter first, though. "Are you alright? What's with all the…?"

Katniss doesn't want her to waste time asking unnecessary questions. "It's not mine. Help Prim."

She doesn't make sure her mother follows her instructions, though. Now that she's not in charge of this guy's life anymore she only wants to get away from his injuries. Come to think of it, she isn't quite sure why she ever was.

She doesn't know him. Doesn't even know his name. Or his background. Nothing. And yet Katniss was so determined to save him. She wonders if this is what comes from living with Prim for so long. She remembers how the young man asked her if she was an angel, his first and only words to her so far. She almost smiles as she imagines him asking her sister the same question. It would be so fitting. Because for her, Prim is the complete opposite of death. She wants to prevent everyone from dying. Maybe it rubbed off on her. Katniss can think of no other explanation. She'd completely forgotten what she'd been thinking when she saw him under this wolf and she blames the struggle of the last fifteen minutes for it.

The girl sighs as she fills the bathtub with cold water. She can't afford to waste wood for warming it up now, not after she's lost a whole night of hunting. She strips off her clothes; she'll wash them once her body is free of the metallic smell that makes her want to vomit.

When the freezing water makes contact with her skin for the first time, she hastily withdraws it. This isn't the first time she's had to deal with something unpleasant like this, and certainly not the first time Katniss feels like she's made of ice, but it takes her full self conquest every time. Katniss squeezes her eyes shut and lets herself slowly down into the tub.

Once she has the soap in her hand and begins scrubbing, though, she relaxes. It gives her time to think. She knows the boy her family members are treating at the very moment isn't going to be able to go anywhere anytime soon. If he makes it at all. He isn't from her village; she knows everyone who lives there. The question is where does he belong? And what was he doing in the forest? She remembers his hair; she saw its light color once they'd come into Katniss' home. Outside she'd thought they were a light brown, but they're blond. Light brown would've been strange enough; people around here usually have dark brown or even black hair. Only the merchants have a dark blonde or light brown, and the small village doesn't hold many of them.

The more she thinks about it the less sense it makes. Why would anyone come here? Especially from a place where he obviously had enough food? The huntress can barely hold back a groan when se realizes she's now practically the provider for this man, too. She'll have to find a place to work for him, and pretty soon, too. She doesn't know if she can feed another hungry mouth all on her own. But she also can't leave him to fate. For some reason that just wouldn't feel right.

When she climbs out of the tub, her lips must be blue by now, and wraps the welcome warmth of a blanket around herself, Prim comes through the door.

"We've done what we could. Mom is now stitching his wound. She says if he wakes up again he will make it." The younger girl eyes her sister carefully. "What happened to him? Who is he?"

And so Katniss tells her how she found him being attacked, already half dead, and about her issues to bring him home. "I don't know his name. We'll just have to ask him when he rises."

Prim raises an eyebrow. "When?"

The older know what she's referring to, but she refuses to accept that her effort and wasted hunting night might have been in vain. "When."

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**Well, what did I promise? It's longer:) I hope you like this one. If you do, or even if you don't, tell me. Reviews encourage me to write a lot faster than I usually would.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2:

After she'd brought her sister to bed again and made sure her mother was asleep again, too, Katniss remembered the wolf, or more his valuable fur and meat, still out in the woods. She knew she wouldn't find sleep; it was another reason why she would hunt at night. She'd just be plagued by nightmares of the head of her father being pierced by a guard's bullet like the wolf's was by her arrow, and wake even more exhausted in the morning. She'd always stay awake until her body couldn't take it anymore; that was the only way she'd find a peaceful rest, even if it meant sleep once a week in the majority of the cases.

To her luck, the only animals that have discovered the fresh meat, which surely very few would refuse after the hard last months, yet are some kind of birds. She shoos the bold ones, those that don't take on their heals as soon as they can hear her approaching, away with her weapon and takes out a knife. She's taken her bag with her; gutting him now will make transporting him much easier, as he's almost as heavy as the boy was, and she knows she can go to the black market immediately. Old Sae's always awake. Katniss has made a habit of going to her in order to avoid sleep in winter, when the steadily sinking temperature made being outside -and with that hunting- almost unbearable.

Sae's ability to make the oldest, even rotten meat taste somewhat edible earned her the huntress' respect. She'll give her the wolf's meat and eat a bowl of stew with her. Greasy Sae is much older than her, and Katniss wants to take advantage of this fact today. It's more likely she knows something about the boy than anyone else the young girl could ask.

When the old woman sees her with her bag, promising fresh meat, and the fur, still smooth and, even Katniss can't deny, beautiful, slung over her shoulder a smile spreads across her wrinkled features and her eyes shine brighter. "You should be more careful, girl. They gonna catch you eventually if you aren't." She's scolding Katniss, but there's a mocking, sarcastic undertone to it. The huntress knows this isn't directed at her, but much more at the guards. Sae despises them, and it's not exactly a secret.

Knowing the game the older woman is playing, having been a participant often enough, the young girl shakes her head benevolent. "I could say the same about you. Don't tell me they never noticed all the people sneaking here. And you're here all day."

Sae shrugs, an indifferent expression on her face. "'Course I am. 'S my home. No worries 'bout 'em, though. Got kicked outta here the very first time their ugly facades showed at the doorstep. Musta been one hell of a woman." Her satisfied, smug smirk tells Katniss the whole story. It hadn't just been any woman happening to be there. It had been one with ten lost teeth, causing her to speak muffled and slang-ish. The first time Katniss had met her, she'd found it hard to understand Sae's words. But she'd gotten used to her pronunciation rather quickly and found herself taking a liking to it.

Now, however, the girl only rolls her eyes as she reaches behind her to open the bag. "You really shouldn't have, you know. They're stronger than you."

But Sae keeps the smirk on her face. She takes the dripping meat willingly and replies, "Got 'em 'fraid of me. Don't worry 'bout me. Worry 'bout yourself. Look like you should, you do. What the matter? This ain't a normal kill." She gestures to the fur slung over Katniss' shoulder and the meat she's throwing into a bowl filled with water. It's already placed on a glowing stove top. "Never seen you look at something with disgust before. Can't imagine you're making this face 'cause of a bit of blood and guts. Not like you haven't seen it before."

The huntress sighs as she lowers herself onto one of the stools she and Sae use every night. She wonders how the fragile, aged looking woman can figure her out so easily. Of course Katniss knows Greasy is the complete opposite of what meets the eye, but she can't quite overcome this fact. She quietly observes the woman, who is now stirring the stew with a worn wooden spoon. She's used this one ever since Katniss can remember. She often wonders if it's the only one she owns, if she's got two or three of them, and why she doesn't get a new one? Isn't she able to afford a spoon? Or is it connected to happy, or even dreadful memories? Maybe memories of the old life in District 12?

She lets her gaze wander over the exterior, pretending, only for the moment, that she doesn't know Sae. She's about as tall as Katniss, although the elder beats her by a few inches. She's thin, thinner than she should be. But it isn't to be expected otherwise; she lives here in Twelve, without food or money. It would even be a miracle if she was normal size. This in combination with her slightly bent back that starts reminding Katniss of a cat's arched back, gives her the defenseless semblance. It's getting worse. Her skin is paper-thin and she has more wrinkles than the young girl cares to count. Sae is easily one of the oldest people around; she once said every wrinkle stood for an experience in her life. She's proud of them, Katniss knows. And she understands.

Sae's nails are scruffy, the black dirt gathering beneath them. In the dim light the huntress can see what she really represents, though. One look at her eyes is enough. Not only the joy she somehow still manages to find and keep is visible, but also the life and the stories she knows. Thrilling, wise, instructive, funny, sad, heartfelt; they're all in there, and Katniss has been told quite a few of them in all the nights she's spent here. They never fail to amaze her; she likes listening to them a lot. They're much better than the nightmares that would plague her if she went to bed.

"You're right. How did you know?" She anticipates her answer, but she wants to hear it. Perhaps she's even wrong.

Sae laughs good naturally, a twinkle lighting her gray eyes. "When you seen ev'ry emotion possible in a girl's face, detecting one doesn't take long. Even yours. Something's troubling you, and it's to do with this animal." She gives the meat a rougher stir, as to mephitises her point.

Katniss, who doesn't see a point in denying it, after all that's what she came for, help, nods. "I does. I shot it because it was attacking a young man and…"

But she doesn't get to continue because of the older woman's chuckle. Katniss isn't sure what to make of it. In her opinion, the whole scenario was anything but funny. A shiver runs down her spine remembering the crimson liquid all over the floor of her beloved forest. The pain in the boy's cries. She shakes her head to get the images out of her head.

To her bewilderment, Sae only grins at the question what there is to laugh about. "Ain't it supposed to be the boy savin' the girl? He good lookin' at least?"

Katniss' mouth is hanging open. It doesn't do anything but broaden the smile on the woman's face. "Gonna take that as a yes. Shut your mouth, you'll catch a fly."

The girl, not having noticed her astonishment had been that obvious, quickly fixes that flaw. She continues to stare in disbelief, though. "I tell you about someone getting ripped apart and you care about his looks? Sae, I was going to ask you to help me find out who he is and where he comes from. I don't need you making fun of me about this."

One of her dreaded scowls is forming on her face while she's talking. Katniss doesn't like being made fun of in the slightest, even by her closest friends. And she can't take teasing when it's about something as serious as this. The image of this boy lying defenselessly beneath the hungry, obviously bloodthirsty predator is one of the worst she's ever seen. The young girl can't get it out of her still horrified mind, and how Sae is playing it down angers her , especially since the boy's life is still in limbo. Katniss has to cling to the illusion that he'll make it; she feels responsible.

At the sight of the all too familiar frown on the younger girls face, Sae's smile fades. Katniss knows she doesn't like her persistent bad mood and sad, intimidating appearance. She once told Katniss how she was one of the most beautiful girls in their village. "Shou'n't hide it. 'S such a shame." The huntress, never having seen herself as pretty let alone beautiful, of course, only shrugged it off with a polite smile in the woman's direction. She'd looked away then; she hadn't noticed the sad, distraught and somehow hard expression on Sae's face, neither had she heard her sigh.

"Sorry." It's a wholehearted sorry, Katniss can tell. She knows the elder well enough. She still can't fully forgive her, though. It's too much. "Didn't think it's that disastrous. You never seen him 'round? Sure he's not from here? What's he look like?"

Sending a glare the Sae's way, still not completely pleased with her, Katniss replies with a slight snarl. "It is. And no, I haven't, I'm more than sure." And she begins describing the boy to her, not letting out one single detail. There wasn't much to notice, of course. She couldn't tell which scars were old ones, which would have been very helpful, how she knows this from experience; scars tell more about a human than words ever can. At this thought she glances at her rough, scarred hands; anyone could see how hard she works to keep her family alive. Scarf-skin is covering it many layers, so Katniss doesn't even feel the bowstring anymore.

When she finishes with her descriptions, Sae looks critical and deep in thoughts. "Doesn't sound like anyone from 'round here, indeed. 'M sure I'd remember 'bout ev'ry blonde. A rarity, they are. Shame, if you ask me. Ev'rywhere brunets, no changes. All look the same. She succeeds with her class distinction."

A frown stretches across the old face. Still no sign of recognition. Katniss can barely make out what the elder is mumbling, she feels like she has to lengthen her ears to get every word. She can also only guess who "she" is, but if she's right, it's not exactly hard. Everyone knows about the aversion the vicious witch holds against the people from the village. Katniss hasn't ever seen her, so she doesn't know about her appearance, but if the saying is true and the eyes are the window to the soul, they must be as ugly as eyes can be. But she also knows; the worst people are usually the most beautiful. She doesn't believe in sayings either way.

Finally, Sae looks at her again, still a troubled expression covering her usually bright features. "Are right, girl, this boy ain't from Twelve. Can't think of anyone your description fits. You gonna gotta find out when he wakes."

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"Is he awake yet?", Katniss asks as she steps through the door. The fur isn't hung over her shoulder anymore; the old woman was willing to give a fair share of money for it, and now that winter is over, Katniss doesn't have any use for it either way. Money's always a good solution, and also always needed.

Prim, who is sitting next to the male body, has a hand pressed to his forehead and quickly moves it to the back of his neck. It's her way of checking for fever; two are better than one, she always claims. Katniss, who knows she has no say in it; she understands about as much of it as her sister does archery, and her interest isn't exactly huge either; has just come to accept it. If the result is satisfying.

The younger shakes her head. "No." Seeing the exasperated expression on her sisters face, she quickly adds, "He's stirred a few times, though. His eyelids also has this creepy way of half-opening. They first time I saw it I thought this were the first signs of him waking up. But he just keeps doing it and remains unconsciousness. I'm not sure what it means." Katniss, despite her lack of medical knowledge or experience with dying or sick people, still has the images of earlier fresh in her mind, and is immediately reminded of his lid's struggle to stay open. She assumes this whole fluttering is a result of the events of the night, maybe a kind of reflex his eyes developed.

Just at this thought, Katniss becomes a witness to said twitching. Prim's right, it does look kind of creepy. Especially in his current half-dead state. Like a corpse coming to life again. Just imagining is giving her chills.

Her sister nods into his direction with her head. "See? I have no idea where it's coming from, and I don't want to wake mom. I don't believe it's a good idea right now." A cautiousness resonates in her voice, a cautiousness Katniss doesn't like. Her lips form a hard line. Uncalled for, a play starts in her head. Prim shaking their mother's sleeping form. Said woman looking at her with those tired, empty eyes. The young girl getting scared for her parent, trying to get her out of it. The elder not reacting. Prim deciding to keep it from her sister so as not to upset her.

"She was at it again, wasn't she? She was having an episode." Katniss glowers, this slight twinkle in her eyes, telling her sister she isn't far from exploding. Prim looks scared, although not of her the elder hurting her; she knows she'd never do that. She's afraid of her mother's fait, Katniss knows it, because she thinks the woman doesn't deserve the treatment she's receiving from her older daughter. Said daughter, however, is differently minded. In her opinion, her mother deserves every ounce of bitterness she's caused her children in the past to come back at her.

They younger shakes the head; not to deny but to calm her. "Katniss, she can't help it. It's not her fault. Please leave her alone."

The older glares at her sister as she barely does; but she "can't help it", either. Always, always swallowing, that's what she does. "Yeah, I should just do that. Just like she left us alone." She spits the words like they're venom. Today is absolutely not her day.

Prim opens her mouth to reply, probably a defense, but; despite knowing it'd be useless anyway, Katniss is very stubborn, closes it because of her sudden urge to jump. A shriek escapes her, though, as the arm next to her begins moving. Her sister, however, is slightly startled, but her eyes don't move to the source of this fright. Instead they immediately find the blue orbs she'd hoped to see.

She doesn't say anything, though, because the younger beats her to it. In a matter of seconds back in healer mode, she holds out three fingers and shows them to him. "How many fingers?", she asks.

And for the first time Katniss remembers, his blue eyes don't vanish after a few seconds. She watches them as his pupils dilate, until they almost swallow all color, contract, until color's nearly all that's left, and then get their normal size. Just in this moment, which is only a blink of an eye, the word stumbles out of his mouth. "Three." It's muffled and sore, but recognizable.

When the sisters exhale out of relief at his reply, his ability to form words and, as a result of that, communicate, it's loud enough for his exhausted ears to catch them. It brings a look of confusion onto his face. "Where am I? And what am I doing here?"

"You're in District 12, our home. My name is Primrose. I don't want to hurt you; I want to help you. Do you remember anything?" Katniss can literally see the wheels in his brain beginning to click. Almost hear him replaying her words in his mind, trying to make sense of them. Finally, his lips part to let the words come through.

"I don't remember much," he admits. The older is still watching him carefully, the way his eyebrows knit together, his forehead furrows and his nose wrinkles as he tries to answer something more satisfying. "My first name…it's…Peeta? Something like that. You can call me Peeta." All his features becoming more concentrated, he tries to think of something else. Katniss hopes he will; his given name won't help her find out anything about him.

But finally, the discontent fills his eyes, and as a result hers, as he says,

"I'm sorry. I don't know more. My family name. Where I am from. My parents. Or siblings, if I have any. It all seems to be...obliterated from my memory. But…", And now he's completely focused on Katniss, a strange, unreadable expression on his face, and she is staring right back at him, urging him on, "…I remember your eyes."

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**Before you ask this: Sae's the only one who talks like that, and every mistake when she talks is made deliberately. I only have immense fun writing about her with her slang(too many Donald Duck comics). **

**Other than that, I'm sorry you had to wait a bit, I had absolutely NO time for writing, and a BIG HUGE thanks to my reviewers! Keep them coming!**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3:

She's unable to tear her eyes away from his when he states this. Katniss doesn't know what to make of it. Her gray eyes, out of all the important, great things he could be remembering? She is sure if it was her lying there, she would not recognize some random, in her opinion boring, eyes of a person she didn't even know.

The boy, Peeta, however, looks about as confused as she feels. He seems to try to figure it out, but no matter how much his nose scrunches, his brows contract, or his eyes close; even when they're fully shut, the light of knowledge and remembrance never brightens them up, they keep their clouded appearance.

Katniss has rarely ever felt as thankful as she does for her little sister when she decides to clear her throat in order to get the elder's attention.

"Well, Peeta, I'm glad I can at least call you by your name now and I'm sure you're going to get your memory back. We'll help you in any way we can." Her eyes suddenly fill with an emotion that can only be described as shame. Katniss doesn't understand why, though. She makes a mental note to ask her sister later.

"This is my older sister, Katniss," she tells him, but her eagerness to cover up whatever flaw she noticed is evident in her slightly too bright voice.

Peeta, who either politely doesn't pretend not to detect the change or is still too drowsy to do so, nods his head. "Nice to meet you, Katniss."

Since she is standing right next to him, shifting a bit uncomfortably about the attention her person is receiving, she decides to act on her -what she hopes to be and likes to think of as; it was her father's responsibility after all- good education and reaches out with her hand for his half outstretched to take it. Usually, she doesn't give much about other peoples opinion, but she doesn't want to mess things up with someone who may stay at her home for a while at the very first opportunity she's given.

But when she does so, his reaction isn't at all what she was expecting. He does take her hand, but very gently, in a feather light touch -not with the firm shake she thought he would- and brings it to his lips. Her eyes widen as she realizes what he's doing; she's heard about this before, although there's no one in Twelve who would greet someone like this.

He keeps eye contact as he softly, almost impalpably, in a fashion that somehow reminds Katniss of what she believes the wings of a fairy would feel, presses his lips to surface of the back of her hand. Much too surprised, she doesn't rip her hand away as she probably would when someone from her village would be touching her.

"Although…I must have already met you, haven't I?" He's smiling, obviously trying to charm the young girl. But, Katniss detects with astonishment, there's also real wonderment in his words.

He then looks at Prim, not giving her a chance to reply, for once an emotion Katniss actually knows - and all too well- in his blue eyes. Guilt. "My apologies. I should have treated you the same way. I must have been too distracted your kind way of taking care of me. Allow me to fix my negligence?"

The younger, who is much easier to impress and charm than her sister, giggles and nods, out of her healing mode. The smile never leaves his face as his lips ghost over Prim's hand like they did over Katniss', and she can literally see how their kindness and way of drawing people to them equals. They won't have a hard time getting used to each other.

"You can stay with us for a while," Katniss offers. She's aware she has to do this; Prim wouldn't, not without her sister's allowance. Still, it does make her uncomfortable, inviting a complete stranger, even if he is technically a patient at the moment. Her stomach knots; she tries to reason with herself. He won't do any harm to them, he physically can't. He's a patient who's life she saved. But he's also a patient who kissed her hand. It's different to her and for this reason, awkward.

"Actually," Prim adds, sensing her sister's discomfort and wanting to help out, "you have to. You can't just go outside with your whole body covered in injuries and on top of that, a memory loss. As your…" She bites her lip, hesitating, not sure what word to use. "…doctor, I refuse to let you gamble with your health."

Peeta looks at the girls with regret. "I'm sorry, but that's too much. I don't want to bother you. I'm perfectly fine. I'll just go find a place to work until I have my memory back and know where I belong. Since you didn't know my name, I assume this place isn't my home. And as long as I don't know where it is, I'll have to stay here. If I don't ever regain my memory, I'll be forced to live here until I die. Better find something as soon as possible. Sleep…there surely is some empty hut or at least a shed or a tree."

The sisters stare at him in disbelief, eyes wide open and lips streched as wide as they will without ripping. Katniss is sure her ears are betraying her. What she is hearing -what he is saying- just can't be true.

Over the years, after her father's death, Katniss has made a discovery. Humans are, in every sense of the word, selfish. Whatever crosses their way, they take it to themselves. They'd do anything to make life easier for themselves. People who help, she realized, don't do it because of kindness. Even if they may think so. They do it to gain something. They do it to make someone else owe them. They help and expect help. They don't give anything for free. They want something back. Humans also don't have a natural enemy. A rabbit has a wolf. A songbird has an eagle. But humans, they only have themselves. Individual cases, like Peeta, of course, can be killed by an animal. But the human species is strong enough not to have real enemies that are animals. And because they don't have them, they manufacture them. Self-destructiveness. This word is a result of human's brutality, which comes from their selfishness. So in the end, even destructing themselves is selfish.

So why, why can't this boy decide do stay with them, for his health and his comfort, as he should. His not wanting to accept their offer doesn't fit into Katniss' view of life at all. The only people who fit the other category, the one where the people who were misplaced in their species belong, are Prim and her father. And Katniss knows Peeta far too less to grant him a place in that special drawer.

She fiercely searches her mind for a possible explanation. Does he not trust them? But why would he kiss their hands and let Prim treat him then? Can it be her appearance? She tries to slip into his shoes; how would she feel if she awoke at the house; different smells and foreign images, of a complete stranger with no memory of anything but her name and the eyes of someone who just happened to be standing next to the table she was lying? And if the stranger asked her to stay with them, at their home?

Katniss snorts. She knows exactly how she'd feel. Helpless, but not wanting to be. She'd do anything to hide her need. And especially, she'd never take the offer. Katniss isn't naïve. She'd never been able to afford owing anyone, and if she had any say in it, she would never pass an opportunity to escape the possibility of owing. She's given up on depending on someone else a long time ago; she learned all there is to know about it. Depending on someone else but yourself will only hurt you in the end. It makes you weak and fragile. And Katniss doesn't want to be either.

And maybe, just maybe, this strange boy thinks exactly like her. Maybe other things have happened to him, things he doesn't remember, but things which keep him from depending on Prim and Katniss. To her, this is what sounds most realistic, and it's a way of thinking she actually understands.

Luckily, however, Prim doesn't. Her voice almost cracks as she angrily tells him how he mustn't leave, how she has to take care of him until he functions again, how it's her duty and how she simply won't allow him to leave the table, let alone the house. "You are my patient, and I'm not going to let you die because of your own stupidity."

Today, Katniss decides, something is wrong with the people. She, herself, strangely cares for a random person she prevented from being eaten by a wolf. Sae doesn't know the answer to a question, and Sae knows just about everything. Prim gets upset enough to call someone she just met stupid and Katniss can barely refrain from grinning thinking about it. It's like some kind of spell was cast over their village and now this spell is changing people and making them feel strange.

She discreetly glances at the window; the on a beautiful, bright day blue sky is hidden by gray clouds, which not only promise rain and coldness, but also create an illusion of bleakness and deadness, which lingers over Twelve and, if Katniss really thinks about it, isn't an illusion at all. It's just a mirror of their lives. The sky is reflecting their eyes; gray, dull and ugly

That is the way Katniss pictures them. That's what she sees with her ignorant-to-beauty mind. In reality, though, if anyone else was asked the question: what do you think of Katniss Everdeen's eyes; they would say they look like diamonds. Uncut, natural diamonds, still beautiful because of their variableness. Real, not fake. And not at all like a clouded rain sky.

The Everdeen herself, however, comes to the realization that a spell can't have anything to do with this. There are no witches and no wizards, even if there may be more things between heaven and earth than humans can give an account of. And of course, she hadn't expected anything else. She just doesn't like not having an explanation.

Peeta facial expression is critical and torn. He's debating with himself whether to take up on their offer or to follow his plans. His nose, Katniss notices, does that scrunching again, and the wood of the old table makes a crunching sound, like teeth, as he tries to sit upright. Having been in the lying position for a long time, it takes him more afford to get up than it usually would. He reminds Katniss of a bug on his back, trying to turn around and get to his feet again. He struggles, gives up for a second to catch his breath, and tries again. Although, unlike most bugs, he succeeds eventually.

But when he does sit upright, his eyebrows are knitted together. Discontent fills his voice as he tells the girls through his teeth, "Alright, I'm going to stay with you. But only for a short period of time. Only until I manage to get up like a normal human being. And I will repay you. As soon as I'm fully healed, I'm going to earn some money I can give to you." He sighs, only then really looking at them.

"I'm sorry. I don't sound as grateful as I certainly should; as I am. Oh yes, I can't thank you enough. I just don't want to be a burden to you. You're two young girls and I'm just wondering how you manage to get by. I don't want to make a scrape by out of it. But know that your kindness is very, very appreciated. I'll be deeply indebted to you forever." The words are filled with so much sincerity; even Katniss, who trusts no one and nothing easily, wonders if they can be faked. She asks herself: why should he?

She only nods, though, not keen on showing any emotion. She's shown enough today, especially to him, even if he doesn't remember. She plans on keeping it that way, too. Katniss doesn't want to be reminded of the cold, merciless panic she was feeling, experiencing because of a complete stranger.

Prim, being the talkative type who likes cheering her patients up; she's good not only at the practical but also at the emotional stuff; doesn't choose silence as her acknowledgement. "If that'll make you feel better, we're going to accept it. We'd be doing it without the money, though." Katniss can barely keep herself from snorting at that. It's typical her sister. Not taking money. She almost shudders at that thought, followed by a rush of self-disgust. So that's what she has become; on of those monsters that care about money money money. No kindness. Selfishness. No help without gaining something. Sooner or later, everyone seems to become like that. But that's just how it rolls, isn't it? Who is a man without money? A lost cause, that's reality. Not taking money means starving. And Katniss simply can't afford to die. If only everything in life was as simple.

"By the way." Prim clearly is in her chatter mode now. Carefree and happy. How Katniss wishes she could be. "It's not only the two of us. Our mother lives here, too. But she's still sleeping. She's had a…," She hesitates. Telling him about their mother's episodes would be cruel to both parts; their mother, because her secret would be shared with this young man, someone they barely know, and Peeta himself, because he wouldn't know whether to fully trust her or to be aware it could happen any moment. "…rough night. You came in the middle of the night, and she's a hardworking woman, so she needs to sleep longer this morning.

His guilty expression returns at her words. Katniss can't honestly say she's surprised. Prim's choice of words, although contrived carefully, was rather unfortunate. It's times like this where she actually believes there's a chance for them to be related. Usually, this hope doesn't last longer than a minute.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have deprived a lady of her well-deserved sleep. Much less three ladies. I don't have the right to. Is there anything I can do to make up for it?"

Prim had been pleased with herself -her way of hiding her mother's problem- until she heard his reply and -again- apology. Of course, him feeling guilty and worried hadn't been her intention at all. Clearly struggling to find the right words this time, she opens her mouth to explain, her eyes not like usually fixed on her interlocutor, but having taken a sudden interest in the wooden wall, counting the years the tree it was made of had lived.

"No! I didn't mean it like that. Our mother wanted to help you, it's what she does. She's fine with losing an ounce of sleep in order to save someone's life. We all are. And if you want to 'make up for it', you just make sure our effort hasn't been in vain. Meaning you don't get yourself killed by overestimating yourself."

Finally tearing her eyes away from the planks and focusing them on his, she glowers at him, obviously still upset over his earlier stubbornness.

Peeta can barely withhold a chuckle, Katniss can tell by the twitching of the corners of his mouth. Upon seeing the blonde's serious expression, though, his becomes the same, the amusement hidden, but still laced with it. If Prim notices, she doesn't decide to act on it. She doesn't like troublesome arguments with anyone, also Katniss has a strange hunch in her gut, telling her this isn't necessarily about fighting; it's more like brotherly teasing. How odd it feels when she finds it doesn't seem to bother her all that much.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm not going to defy your rules." Prim, unfortunately, can't suppress the smile sneaking across her face anymore. She gives him one last visibly fake frown before allowing it.

Katniss, however, is quite distracted by something in his voice. A seriousness, almost aristocratic undertone. She wonders if it is just made up, or something he actually was used to talking with. She doesn't like aristocrats, as most of them maintain the reputation to be bloated, something better. What did Sae say? Class distinction. An extreme form of it.

What is it with this boy? Is he playing, or is he actually some kind of noble, even aristocratic? She remembers the hand kiss. He didn't appear to feel awkward touching his lips to two strange girls' hands. It was like it was the most natural thing in the world, as though he did it every day. And sometimes, his parlance has been rather idiosyncratic too.

She eyes him carefully. Blond, tousled hair. It looks unkempt now, but she can imagine it having been smooth once. Curly, maybe, but smooth. She hadn't noticed before, probably too occupied with her bug-comparison, but while he was sitting up, the blanket her mother had carefully draped across his body to keep his warmth shifted down and bared his chest and shoulders. Like his face, they do show the first signs of starvation, being slightly too flat, slightly too unmoving. But Katniss can also see how well-defined they are; no doubt trained. The lack of food and the efforts of last night have done their deed, of course. He's weak now, weaker than he should be and was before. But Katniss also knows how well the crutches worked, and she remembers her assumptions about him not having starved ever before.

No, her theory isn't as erroneous as its first impression seems.

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**No, don't worry, Katniss won't figure it out soon. By the way, have you? I don't think I made it that hard, so if you did, that's not me not being carefully.  
**

**Thank you for your amazing reviews for the last chapter, they made my day kept me going; they always do!  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I think I need one every five chapters. So no, I don't own the Hunger Games**

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Chapter 4:

Katniss keeps trying to think of a possible scenario for the rest of the day. She gets frustrated every so often, unable to understand why someone with as much money as they want would voluntary leave this easy, pleasant life behind. She can't comprehend why a rich, spoiled man would step into the big forest, where all his power wouldn't help him if he got lost. No, it's a complete riddle to her.

Taking a seat on one of the fragile, wooden chairs she isn't sure won't break, her assumptions and considerations let her drift out of reality and into a world where only her thoughts count. She is barely aware of Prim's and Peeta's presence in the room, much less of the conversation which passes between them. Only shreds of words reach her ears, but her unconsciousness is able to make out her sister describing Twelve, their home. Sometimes she snaps out of her dazed state, when names or places she recognizes are mentioned. But most of the time, she can't concentrate on anything but her thoughts.

Only when she suddenly hears a full-hearted laugh, her senses seem to focus on the room she's in again; there's a clock at the wall, one she'd seen right through, next to a mirror where she can strangely see her reflection in now.

And she looks bewildered, just having noticed the point of time; it's almost midday now. She, herself, had eaten at Sae's, of course, but she hadn't paid attention to Prim or their patient's breakfast. She mentally scolds herself. Taking care of her family had always been her top priority. She never forgets.

Guilt creeps up on her when she realizes this never isn't true anymore. And her shame only grows greater when she remembers the lack of food in their house. There is money in her bag, of course, but she knows using it now, on something as normal, would be fatal. Literally.

Because, for Katniss, money is for winter, when there is no prey outside. At least the money she earns from hunting. What Prim and her mother earn, however, is for fabric for clothes, which they have to sew themselves if needed, and for bread, since there aren't any fields which grow grain Katniss can gather without getting caught. Grain is the only commodity being guarded even at night, because the witch fears hungry people robbing her off her fresh, golden bread.

Only thinking of it makes Katniss' mouth water. With how little money they have, they can only afford the older, duller, sometimes stale bread. But buying those does neither prevent her from seeing the fresh, glowing, brown-golden loaves nor from smelling their heavenly scent. She imagines biting into them, letting her tongue swirl around it, taste it as long as possible, and savor its goodness on her taste buds forever.

A little sigh escapes her; it's only a dream, and it will always be. They cost far too much and are far too rare. And anyway, the fact that dreams don't tend to come true isn't exactly news to her. Vain dreams and stupid fantasies, they're all a waste of time.

Eating, however, isn't. And she realizes that, no matter how conflicted her feelings about it may be, she will have to take today's haul of money to buy food for her family and their patient. There's no way around it.

As if on cue, she hears the wooden door to their bed, the one Katniss hasn't come to oil yet, crack open, revealing her mother. The daughter has to suck in a breath at her sight; the once soft, nice-looking blonde hair is practically a bush now, never mind the fact that it's obviously inhabited by some feathers; the pillows had always been in a bad shape. Dark bags beneath her hollow eyes and sunken cheekbones.

Katniss knows her mother used to be beautiful; at least that is what people who witnessed her younger years claim; but she can barely imagine this woman in front of her having had anything but the unkempt, ugly appearance she carries through her bleak life. These thoughts make Katniss want to vomit; drifting away like that was her choice, after all. Life could have been different for her. And for her daughters.

Despite her disheveled, dazed appearance, her words are surprisingly clear when she opens her mouth. "He's up? So he's alive. Should sleep now, again, though." Her eyes scan his body. "And have food when he wakes. He's lost much blood. He's going to need it."

Clear, but quiet. It's no wonder Peeta doesn't catch her voice, and he hasn't noticed her arrival anyway. Something must be wrong with his ear, too, or perhaps it's only about exhaustion. Katniss knows the effects of exhaustion all too well, having experienced them many times, sometimes not sure whether she would be able to bear them or collapse under the pressure and effort every move was demanding of her.

Prim leans down and whispers into his ear, effectively -unlike her mother- passing the information and instruction for his health to him. Katniss, sensing this to be the perfect point of time, gestures for her sister to join her. She makes her intention obvious by shuffling on her father's leather jacket and hauling her back from the chair she'd -rather carelessly- placed it on when she got home.

Her sister hesitates for a second, taking a short glance at the boy next to her, but relaxes immediately when she sees his eyelids shut and nods. She hushes over to Katniss, careful not to make a sound, and almost succeeding. Prim isn't as quiet as her sister, never has been, but Katniss knows she tries her best. Only loose panels or small rocks manage to make her fail, unlike the elder, who's had practice for far longer, and whose survival often depended, still does, on it. Because noises equal running, fleeing animals, and no game means neither food nor money.

The girls slowly tiptoe to the door, occasionally glancing back at Peeta, making sure he's sleeping, or at least falling asleep. Katniss wishes he does; his eyes made him appear so weak and fragile, because of their tiredness.

Only when the doorway is crossed and left behind do they find their normal rhythm and Prim also breaks their silence with her justified questions.

"Who is this boy? Were is he from? And what is with him and his way of expression? He speaks like he's…"

Katniss is almost amused by the way her sister things about along the same lines as she does. So, to show her the obvious, she ends Prim's sentence by interrupting her with a "Noble."

She then sighs. "Yes, I know. I've noticed, too. The thing is I don't think he remembers. It seems to be casual for him."

Prim looks at her doubtfully and somewhat troubled. "He must remember _something_, though. It's…it's perfectly natural for a shocked person to suppress or supplant the cause of their fear, but not everything. Except every event in his life is somehow associated with the wolf's assault, but I trust this theory to be highly unlikely. I mean, it must have been completely random. Maybe it's just me not seeing some symptoms and being stupid but…"

She buries her face in her hands; a habit of hers which comes to use whenever she trails off, is embarrassed or just wants to think. Katniss guesses it's a combination of those three factors at the moment. Also, it's the answer to her earlier question. Prim is ashamed of herself, of her inability to help her patient recover in the way she wants him to; fast and painless.

If there was anything Katniss knew about healing; it would be the fact that it's neither. Recovering, whether it be from physical or mental pain, is like a dark tunnel with rocks to bounce against constantly and a long way to walk before there's even a light. This light is like hope, which can be shattered by the next rock that may fall from the ceiling.

She, however, never had the heart to tell Prim; of course, usually it was only fast death or just some kind of cold. Or starvation, which actually is the most frequent problem, and with that the most frequent case in District Twelve. But, since there is no real solution, besides food, and the small family can't afford to give nourishment to half the citizens, those cases result in death almost every time.

"No, you aren't," Katniss tries to console her. It's what she's here for. "You're smart, and the best healer I know." Despite her knowing only Prim and her mother, she can't imagine anyone doing a better job with the few remedies they are placed at the disposal; only having what nature gives them, because of their poverty. And, although Prim go along the same lines as Katniss', a small smile lights her face.

The younger gives her a long look, but nods eventually. "You're right. I just wish I could find a way to help him regain what he's lost, or at least to find out myself. It's just…what if this happened to someone from the village?"

She looks around the narrow street they're walking on, taking in countable rips of small children on they're mother's arms, the tired, desperate faces of the women, and the two dirty kids staggering around a corner, small branches in their hands. Katniss has to suppress a shudder again; she sees them, their fates, on daily basis, yet she never really takes her time to observe them. Specifically surveying them, though, makes it so much worse than knowing and occasionally noticing. That is her, she knows, five years ago. The branches the children carry are their help to dig in puddles, trying to find lost vegetables or, on a very lucky day, even pieces of meat. They'll eat it, and it'll make them sick. They won't eat it, and they'll die of starvation. It's a doom loop.

"I don't know their stories," Prim states. "I wouldn't know how to help them if they lost their memory, either. I…Peeta's case just makes me feel useless."

Shocked by this statement, Katniss turns to grab her sister by the shoulders. "Don't. Don't ever believe this. You're smart, you're caring. You're a great girl, Prim, and the best sister I could ask for. And Peeta is blessed to have you as his doctor."

Prim gives her a sad, but somehow still heartfelt smile. "He's blessed to have you as his savior."

* * *

"He's been tossing and turning in his sleep the whole time. I don't want to wake him up, since I can't predict his reaction, but I'm not sure we should leave him being plagued by dreams."

Her mother's greeting doesn't exactly make Prim feel better. Katniss, who had been glad she'd managed to actually find the right words to comfort her sister, sends a glare her way. Although, she decides, she'd have to be blind and deaf not to notice.

It's not that he's screaming, no. Not like she, herself, sure is. After all, Prim has told her about it quite a few times, even woken because of them. But the sounds he's spouting off are, in a way, even more disturbing. Like a person drowning, being strangled, shouting cries no one hears because of their ignorance. His mouth is half opened, his voice barely above a whisper, fearful and unhealthy. He isn't forming words; whatever it's supposed to be is incoherent; but they bear witness to grief and abuse.

"Maybe we should wake him," Prim says through gritted teeth, trying to hide her sorrow and distress. Remembering her mother's lack of information, she quickly explains Peeta's memory loss. "Then we'll let him talk. Perhaps…perhaps he's reliving realities he believes to be dreams or nightmares now. But he'll forget. We won't. Take it as a piece of a puzzle. It's the only hope we, including him, have to figure out who he is."

She observes her family members, waiting for a reaction, obviously quite pleased with herself and also, which almost makes Katniss smile, eased.

Prim's right, the older sister realizes. Her plan makes sense, even to her. Right after rising, she still knows about the nightmares which forced her to have a restless night. They memory fades quickly, though, and no one has ever made the effort of keeping it; after all, why should they? It would only cause pain and want for what was lost.

But in Peeta's case, it's quite a smart move. With nothing to begin with, it's actually the best they can do. With nothing to begin with, it's actually the best they can do.

Her mother is along the same lines, too, despite her usually confused state.. She's uncharacteristically focused today, and also not as quiet. Katniss, of course, believes it's too good to last, and mentally prepares herself for another zoning-out episode.

"Of course. I probably would have thought of it myself, if I'd known. But…yes, we should risk it and try."

Her daughter has to hold back a snort. As far as she is concerned, her mother can't even think of a solution for her own problem, much less of one of another human being, especially when it's as complicated as Peeta's case.

She also knows this facades he's putting on. It's partly meant to protect her patient, but also for her children to respect her again. And respect is something Katniss can't grant her mother anymore, and she's sure she never will. The bitterness, desperation and the fear that came with her father's death, and as a result of that, her mother's abandonment, is something she'll never learn to forget, or forgive. She doesn't even want to try anymore.

Prim, although slightly hesitantly, despite being so sure of the success of her theory, sneaks over to the turning boy's body. This hesitance also becomes evident in her light shake of his shoulders; far too weak to wake a grown man who's currently being as good as torn apart by nightmares. Sensing this, her shakes get harder, and Katniss becomes aware of the way her breath hitches in her throat.

She doesn't trust him. She doesn't trust his instability, nor his unpredictability. She doesn't know how he is going to react when he sees her sister, and Katniss knows from experience that her first idea is the one waking her is an introducer, probably someone out to harm her, someone from the nightmare, or making it come true. She knows how she has the urge to throw herself at this someone, to bury her nails in their face, crawl their eyes out, anything to make it stop. As soon as she sees and recognizes Prim, in a matter of seconds, this urge goes away, fades into nothingness. But that's with Prim, her little sister. How would she react to a stranger she hasn't talked to save for an hour before passing out? She isn't sure she'd be able to separate dream from reality.

Her newfound panic, the image of the large blond man attacking her fragile little sister, however weakened he may be, fills her to the brim as he stirs, his leg moving visibly consciously, and with one long leap she grabs her sister's hand and forcefully pulls her away from his bed. She winces as she hears Prim's suppressed cry of surprise and slight pain; after all hurting her sister is the very last thing she wants; but better this way than being strangled or worse. At least that is what she tells herself.

The blue in his eyes is barely evident when Katniss; despite her sister's distraught, reproaching gaze boring through her skull; nearly screams their question.

"What did you see?"

She flinches, takes a step back at the sight of his eyes; his pupils dilated, the plain black clouding them, the slender streak of blue glassy and unfocused. She is now glad for ripping Prim away; he looks dangerous in this state.

"Darkness." If it wasn't for her ability to recognize his voice, she would never guess it was Peeta who had spoken. His lips are only parted for breath to come through, and thus his voice was deeper and fainter than before. But clearly male, which betrayed him.

She doesn't dare to interrupt him as he stares directly at her, although there's a faraway look mirrored in his eyes. "A force knocking me off my feet. Insults, shouted at me by a foreign yet strangely familiar, female voice. Pain. More and more, with every word. I…"

Suddenly his body jerks forward and cuts him short. He is shaking, everything, everywhere, for a moment, before he finally relaxes and, breathing heavily, sinks back onto the table.

When he looks at the small family again, there's only the shock in his face readable. "I'm sorry. So sorry you had to witness this. It isn't going to happen again. This isn't something that happens regularly, I apologize again. Are you harmed in any way?"

Katniss is literally speechless; she is left swallowing hard with disbelief. Her thoughts tumble in her head, as do her questions. This isn't the first time this happened? It happens when it isn't on purpose, too? What kind of wicked dream did he describe? Is it a mixture of experiences or one revival?

But one sticks out, even in the mess that is her mind at the moment, as she stares into his now clear, shining eyes. He remembers?

* * *

**Thank you for your wonderful reviews, and I apologize for letting you wait. I wasn't home for three days, thus I couldn't write. No longer break again, though, at least I hope so. My exams are over now, so I should have more spare time:)**

**Do you have enough to write me a little review? I'd love you so much!  
**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5:

None of them knows how to write, or read for that matter; it is a luxury only few people, such as friars and nobles, are taught. Their only way of remembering Peeta's memories when he, himself, forgets about it after he told them, and it's actually strangely frightening to Katniss how this always seems to happen, is memorizing his every word. This results in him always getting woken up from his slumber, always one of the females sitting by his side, ready to listen to what he has to say. And patiently enduring his never ending apologies.

Those earn irritation as well as suppressed grins from Katniss, anyway. Having grown up in the poorest, tiniest part of the already small village, she has never experienced much kindness. People here are mostly like her; embittered, care about their own problems rather than those of their neighbors -except it is about gossip, since even in their desperate state, they still manage to somehow have the will to be informed about what is going on with others. They only wouldn't look if what they found was exasperating and haunting; they'd always turn their backs to those cases- and always scowling.

Given these circumstances, the blonde boy's behavior is more than only confusing to her. If anyone was to ask her, she'd tell them it's absolutely foreign. If there's anything he can't stand, or at least can't leave unreformed, it have to be imperfections. Not on their house, their small amount of money, their lack of hygiene, his uncomfortable sofa, where he's been placed after he fell off the table once, no, he has never once complained about them. Or anything in Katniss', her mother's or Prim's behavior -although there is never anything to complain about the latter anyway.

But Peeta has the habit of literally, almost physically forcing himself to perfection. An apology after every mistake he makes -which he doesn't often, at least not in Katniss' opinion, more in his own apparently- , helping as good as he can, sitting with Prim, often Katniss, sometimes their mother, and talking to them, trying to help them with their struggle to put the pieces together. Even in the household. He can't do big things yet; he's still far too weakened; but at every occasion he offers to build a fire, clean the table -as training for his legs he claims- or even tries to lighten the mood.

Of course, with the whole neighborhood living almost in each other's houses, Peeta is no well-kept secret. Another patient of the Everdeen's, sure, but also someone who isn't from home. And it gets the people's curiosity.

Katniss, however, is only unnerved by her gossiping fellow men. She'd gone off at the -felt- hundredth person to ask her. Screamed at him to mind his own business and used curses which would have made her mother flinch, if she'd heard them. In her mind, though, it was highly justified. After all, the whole village knows and apparently, there's nothing more interesting to anyone.

"Can you blame them?", he asks her with a sigh, a bored, almost indifferent expression on his face. Quickly followed by a genuine looking smile, although Katniss is never quite sure whether they are real or not. She still can't always tell if they really reach his eyes or if they are forced. Katniss' assumption -part real part fake- has yet to be confirmed, but she refuses to believe that it is in anyone's nature to smile that much, that wide, that bright when they should be experiencing an almost unbearable pain; disinfection hurts, after all, even if it is supposed to help.

This time, however, he has outdone himself. Granting the people who gossip about him understanding, or even something close to it, is nothing Katniss can imagine. She snaps at people when she is only involved in the rumor -which often causes a frown to stretch across her face for an entire day- but it's even worse when she's the main subject.

Giving him a disbelieving stare, she replies, "Of course! What's it to them? Is it any of their business? It's not like they want to help you; they just need something to talk about and busy themselves. And they picked us! You, specifically. And they don't even know you!"

Peeta, to her bewilderment, meets her outburst with a small shrug. His smile, for some reason unknown to her, transforms into a grin. "They shall talk as they wish. If there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that they will stop eventually. They will find something new; they always do. I give them a couple of days, at maximum. A strange boy who has lost his remembrance…I do not believe I am exceptionally interesting."

Shall. She knows the word, yet it's foreign. She hasn't heard it being tossed around before, hasn't heard anyone but him ever using it. They differences in their language are slight, but they are noticeable. Even Katniss' usually oblivious mother did.

This is what makes her scrunch her nose at his last statement. The familiar frown is arriving, too. Because those kind of things are what make him interesting and unique; to her at least. His politeness, even kindness, his words, his smiles. Different, sometimes unsure, sometimes hesitating, but steady. They may irritate her at times, but they clearly make him special. He isn't like anyone else she's ever met.

She knows how his words about gossip and rumors are true, though. They are short-lived, impermanent, like froth. First it does stick to one's fingers, but after a while it runs through, and is not being paid any attention to after. Because it simply vanishes into the air, once and for ever.

It's the only good thing about them, really; their evanescence. And, of course, it's about the entertainment -which they so desperately crave for- of the whole village. But, no matter how antisocial it may sound to observers, Katniss could care less about that matter. If they're at her charge, she could live without them gratefully. And even if they aren't about her; Katniss doesn't need them for her satisfaction. Whenever she is bored, she doesn't waste her time talking to random people about random, uncertain tattle that may or may not be true. There are more important tasks to fulfill; surviving, for example.

Still, even if it's all the same to her; gossip is gossip, whether it be about who is sleeping around with whom or who has stolen their neighbor's last food supplies; she can't understand how Peeta can meet matters concerning him with such an indifference -and even understanding. Because, when it comes to her, she only doesn't care until she's involved. Ignorance can be pretended to others, sure, but she can never deny the effect it does indeed have on her to herself.

She has stopped gaping by now, and a serious expression has overtaken her face. "They shouldn't talk at all. What if it's going to harm you in the long run?"

As hard as she finds it to read him usually, there's no denying his feelings right now; he doesn't understand her words. She wouldn't care in a normal case -no one understands her the way she wants them to; she's used to her disability to form words the right way- but this time she, herself, is surprised. Even to her it's unknown what she meant.

Creases appear on his forehead as he ponders on her words. His smile has long since faded, and it seems to her he's biting his inner cheek. It strangely reminds her of the way she gnaws at her lip if she is deep in thought.

"How would you expect it to harm me? I do not know what they say, and as far as I'm concerned, there's no reason to learn it. Ordinarily, it's discriminatory, and not worth being upset about, because it's also false."

The girl sighs, her muscles relaxing as she slumps onto the chair they've placed next to the sofa he's lying on. She knows where this discussion is taking them; nowhere.

"Never mind," is her reply because of that. He must have come to the same conclusion, because he doesn't question her sudden, abrupt way of ending their argument.

Silence dominants the next minutes, as they sit there, occasionally gazing at each other. His smile has returned, while she is giving him a mostly emotionless regard. Her thoughts drift off to the upcoming night, a Sunday night, a hunting night where she will meet Gale.

She can't say she hasn't been looking forward to it; the week, especially with another mouth to feed, has been more than exhausting, and she's glad there's finally someone to tell the story to in a not-business-fashion, like she did her mother and Prim. She didn't tell Peeta at all; her sister instructed her not to -yet-, since it could traumatize him, worsen his shock and retard his recovery. She says when he's more stable, when he remembers more about his past, will be the moment Katniss will be allowed to talk about it to him.

So it's a relief she can get it off her soul before, even if she knows she wouldn't pour out her heart to Peeta anyway. Gale isn't the best at listening, of course, but when it's about serious business, he usually lets her talk before commenting or lecturing her.

"I can't seem to remember having seen eyes like yours ever before I came here."

She's snapped out of her thoughts immediately. She hasn't forgotten about his comment concerning her eyes; she just didn't think he'd remember. And she has no idea as to why he has brought his up.

Peeta props himself up on his elbows, clutching the edges of the sofa for more support. Then he resumes watching her, boring deeply into her gray eyes with his brilliantly blue ones. "Many, many different shades of gray. They're exceptionally light, just around your pupils. Almost blue. They grow darker with every inch, and are framed by a merely darker color than the one before. Like the circle is broken. It doesn't look it, though, it looks more like the frame of a picture."

His gaze is so intense she can't seem to break hers from it. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she sees the shifting his hands are doing. She's sure she's seen this way of moving one's hands -graceful, sometimes stilling, sometimes more quickly than other times- before, but she can't recall the exact occasion. They look like they're flying, maybe gesturing, but there's something else to it, something she can't quite seem to define.

She is also somewhat aware of the fact that she should pay more attention to his words; beautiful as they are, they deserve it- but she isn't able to. Thoroughgoing as his eyes bore into hers, it's an impossibility for her to concentrate. She isn't used to someone being so close; on occasions like this, she actually believes in the saying: eyes are the window to the soul. And, in her opinion, no one besides her is supposed to know about her darkest secrets, no one is allowed to know what's going on inside her. So no one should have access to her soul, no matter how.

The fact that he's doing this deed quickly creeps her out. She unconsciously shoves the chair she's sitting on further away from him, pressing her back more firmly against the rest. It doesn't help one bit; his observation, if anything, only becomes more fixedly.

Thankfully, it's once against mother nature who helps her. Because her eyes have become far too dry, and she reflexively blinks. In her sudden second of awareness, she keeps them shut for longer than necessary and turns her head away. Keeps them focused on the dirty white pillow, which is already losing its first feathers, she has suddenly found immoderate interest in.

Peeta, sensing her discomfort, clears his throat. "I apologize. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just…I've had…I don't know how to explain it." He inhales shakily, hesitantly. "I have felt this…this urge quite a few times by now. Are you accustomed to this feeling where you want to…to keep on single moment? Forever. To catch it, to…just hold it. And you want to be able to show it to others. Just how special it is to you, what you see."

While he's talking, there's a special expression quickly creeping across his face. Something Katniss can only describe as a far-away look. She can't quite define it; the way of thinking he is describing is foreign to her. She isn't familiar with the want to hold onto something. If she has learned anything in her short life, it's that memories hurt. Which is why Katniss thinks it might even be cruel to help Peeta get his memory back; if only not having them wouldn't be even worse. Living with this kind of unawareness would freak her out, make her go crazy at some point. But still, all the young girl has wanted since her father died was forget. Forget pain, forget her loss, forget she misses him. Only, she realizes at this very moment, she wouldn't want to forget him, her father himself.

She's always known Prim and her father are what keep her going. Thinking of them brings her strength, willpower. Katniss would never want to disappoint either. She would be ashamed of herself; she would loath herself.

She is surprised -mildly shocked even- when she looks down at her hands. Her knuckles have turned white from the effort of clutching onto the chair's edges as if her life depended on it. It's alarming how even the mere thought creates this kind of undying panic inside her. Because now she can only think about what will ultimately happen if she fails. Her family will become a shadow of itself; thinner and thinner, until they vanish from the cruel earth's surface. In death she knows will be no peace for her, for her father sure is waiting their arrival, and he will punish her for letting his wife -the woman he loves- and his two children die.

"Katniss?" The image of her father, the man she always drew her strength from, sitting between white clouds, laughing while the flames of his revenge are devouring her and she's screaming, screaming for him, fir anyone to help her, to make the agony she knows she deserves stop, is suddenly replaced by a casual one.

Well, more casual anyway. Glancing down, she can make out her hands again. All blood has drained from them now; she is surprised her bones aren't visible. Also only now, Katniss realizes she's feeling pain. The chair is by no means a new one; it is carved and splinters stick out every so often. They bored into her hands, deeper and deeper, and as she carefully, as not to disturb anything, loosens her grip, the first crimson drops fall onto the chair's surface.

Katniss stares at them in wonder, as if she's never seen anything more fascinating. Her eyes travel upwards, recognizing familiar wooden panels and the worn fabric slung across the ugly, somewhat hard, yet strangely comfortable sofa. The old, itchy blanket is covering the lower half of a man's body, the upper one is wearing the shirt her father used to work in, and the hair is falling into Peeta's eyes, their curly nature not helping in the slightest.

He doesn't let it bother him, though. His eyes are fixated on the girl in front of him, pale as a sheet, her face plain white, her orbs scarily bulging. Concern is written all across his face, even as the color slowly creeps back, first up her cheeks, than from there on across her whole face. Oddly enough, the urge to catch this moment strikes him despite the fear and loneliness it creates. Or maybe even because of it.

"No," she replies, as an answer to his former question. She doesn't want to be confronted with the former occurrence. He has no right to know, no matter how scrunched up his face is, or how much comfort for her is held behind those blue eyes. She doesn't want nor need it.

"Are you feeling alright?" Irritation is in his voice, it's clear he didn't expect her ignorance.

"Fine," is her cut, snappy response. "And no, I have never wanted to catch anything but my prey."

He observes her quietly, reflective. He doesn't act on it, however, as he says with a slight chuckle, "It is kind of like what you describe. It is more like writing. Only…not as words, but as what it is. Like…"

And suddenly, his whole face lights up in a fashion she's never seen before. Pure, genuine happiness. She follows his gaze and her eyes widen as they land on the object causing his joy.

She hadn't remembered, hadn't even looked at it in a long time. She hadn't seen a reason to. The art of reading had never been taught to her. She never needed it, she, as well as her father, knew she never would.

But a long time ago, her father had told her, one of her antiquates had known how to write. And he'd written down all he knew about every plant he was familiar with. Katniss was never able to read his font, of course, but he'd done something to define the difference between edible and poisonous. He'd worked with colors.  
Because of every plant in the book, there is a drawing. Those which are black and white -or yellow now that the pages are old and yellowed- are the ones holding poison; illness or death. But, so everyone knows they can be consumed without worry, those plants which are fit to eat, are in color.

But Peeta isn't pointing at the pages, for he hasn't seen them yet. He's pointing at the cover; a flower drawn by someone exceptionally talented.

And suddenly, Katniss knows how he wants to catch a moment. He wants to draw it.

* * *

**A bit fillery, I know. But drawing is...kind of...needed for his recovery. You'll see why:)  
**

**Thanks for reading, and all reviews are as always greatly appreciated:)**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6:

Getting a pencil is an accomplishment she hadn't expected she'd have to fulfill at any point in her life. After all, she had never even dreamed of saving a boy from the teeth of a wolf, and especailly not that of all the gifts he could have been born with, it would be art. Much less of herself learning how to write, of course.

He is an artist, yes, she has no doubt. She's heard him talk, draw a picture with his words. She needs no proof to believe he can work the same magic with his hands. She can't believe, however, how she's spending more money on the boy she barely knows, who barely knows himself, now.

Of course, it could help his recovery. Which, guaranteed, is the only reason she's willing to buy something other than food for him. She rarely does that for Prim -she's usually clothed in Katniss' or their mother's old dresses, as they can't afford to spend money on things which aren't essential for survival normally-, and her little sister is the person closest to her, the motivation and kingpin in Katniss' cruel world of loneliness.

Peeta, though, is not only a healthy young man, with qualities surely more worthy than drawing, whether it be on paper or in his counterpart's mind -heaving weighty, bulky sacks, trunks, bags or other objects are rather unlikely to be a problem for him; as soon as his leg is recovered, that is- but, judging from his physical, corporal condition, he must have lived a wealthy life, with more money than Katniss has ever dared dreaming of. Money he will surely spend to thank his saviors in the most sincere way. Especially seen as he thinks of himself as indebted to them.

Which, quite honestly, Katniss can comprehend. Picturing herself in his situation means picturing herself with the same emotions, and guilt is alarmingly close to the top of the list, accompanied, and possibly exceeded by suspicion and distrust. For she knows herself well enough to say she wouldn't trust as easily as Peeta does, isn't certain if she would trust some strangers patching her -especially her brain- together at all.

Evening is nearing, the sun already beginning to set. Its now orangey golden rays already hit Katniss in a different angle than they did when their producer was at the zenith. Color her usually olive skin a light brown. Her father used to say sunsets made people glow, no matter their crimes, their past, their origin. As a sign that everybody, in the end, is the same; a human being. And that everyone has something good in them. How much can only be defined by how much light they're emitting.

And Katniss, small and naïve as she was, believed his every word, and she saw what he meant. All of them _did_glow. At least in her imagination, they did. Her father's words had captivated her, and she wanted to see the radiation she believed in. Over time she learned only their hair glows, for skin simply cannot reflect sunlight, except it's wet from raindrops or her lake.

Or, and she can't fully preclude the thought, every goodness vanished with the old ruler's and her father's death. But that sounds too much like superstition, and she isn't one to persuade herself into deeming black cats or the number thirteen ominous either.

In the corner of the coal covered, rundown warehouse, she spots a worn looking chest, as she accidentally turns her head into it's direction while entering. The lid is opened, revealing about six different surfaces, separated by small boards, which are already visibly cracking, but still doing their job.

Normally she wouldn't pay attention to the old, crippled man with the broken nose, but the slender branches wrapped around a small line of lead manages to catch it. She lets her feet draw her to the chest without offering resistance, as she usually does when they choose to carry her without any order consciously given by herself.

The man, who is currently staring off into space, doesn't notice her approaching until she comes to a stop right in front of him and coughs softly. It's perplexing how fast his eyes dart from the wall of the Hob to Katniss, piercing her one's immediately, making her flinch.

"What'd ya want?" Slurring his words the way he is, she doesn't have to hear him twice to realize he's dead drunk. The well-known frown returns at this; the only person around who is in possession of the very thing she -well, Peeta- desires, is just about to pass out.

And he is; he clearly smells of it. So how, Katniss wonders, can his eyes be as focused as they are? Somehow dangerous, intimidating, but that isn't an uncommon reaction to alcohol; she only can't detect how they would be so keen.

Slightly shaking her head; turning it into the direction of the ceiling as if to diminish the -to her sober, empty stomach- nasty, sharp white liquids' scent; Katniss reaches into her bag, getting a hold of a few coins. She clutches them tightly in her hand, hesitating a second before showing them to him.

"I want to buy this pencil."

The man's eyes narrow, fixed to the money for a second, before once again boring into hers. He raises an eyebrow, higher than she thought possible.

"You write?"

Her frown deepens at his question, even if she doesn't know why exactly. Of course she would be asked this; a young girl buying an utensil used to write is more than only suspicious. As an answer, though, she shakes her head.

"How's it any of your business? Give me what I'm asking for, take your money and I'll leave."

For the first time, something sparkles within the gray orbs, and he gives a husky, low, cracked chuckle, only airing his drunkenness, making it more even obvious than it was before, and stealing all respect from Katniss. There's no way for her to take someone like him seriously, especially not when he's so sickly, openly laughing at her.

"Ah, a fierce one," he slurs when he's collected his wits as in any way possible in his current, pathetic state. "Haven't seen one in a long time. Very rare." At her visibly growing impatience, he adds with a smirk,

"I'll give to you what you require. But tell me, if it isn't meant to write, what's it purpose?"

Losing it entirely, she snatches the pencil from him, more quickly than he can react. In its place she leaves the money, sending him a glare. But, with a smirk on her part, she does tell him. For this one time, she can borrow someone else's words.

"Catching moments."

Without granting him a second glimpse, she turns and leaves straight.

* * *

She watches in amazement as she comes home to the sight of Peeta drying off some kind of paper he miraculously -for the lack of a better term- conjured with the help of a vat of water, some bark, and an exceptionally edged knife.

"Where'd you learn how to do that?"

He startles, having been too occupied by his work to note her feather-like steps. But as he turns to face her, there's a smile playing his lips, definitely genuine this time.

"How do you expect me to know? It's like the language I use. I cannot recall learning it, yet I possess knowledge of how to communicate."

Katniss brings one hand up to her face, running it along her hairline, tucking a strand of hair which has fallen out of her braid behind her ear. It's easy, forgetting about his lack of remembrance, when he doesn't act on it and talks to her normally, with a never-fading smile. The awareness may be stuck at the back of her head, but when she doesn't think about it, it behaves the way every problem in her village does; it ceases to exist.

Deciding to gloss over her for some reason somewhat embarrassing -seen as the answer should have been obvious- question, she only shrugs.

"When do you think you'll be able to use them?"

His expression, just a moment ago careless, turns oddly troubled. "I believe I have to exercise patience until tomorrow. Unless…well…"

A slight side-glance reveals his motives to her without him having to express them through words. For Katniss is a huntress, her eyes have been trained to look out for movements far quicker than his could ever be.

Furthermore, his intention isn't exactly well-hidden by the longing in his gaze as his eyes fall onto the old plant book. Traitorously, there's a glint in them, unveiling his knowledge of the few empty, most likely never to be filled pages.

He must have gotten curious in her absence, she figures. She doesn't know any plants but the ones inside; she's never had the guts to try foreign ones out, and they got by with the ones she knew for sure weren't poisonous, so why try out the obscure danger if there's a safe haven for them to rely on?

He notices her gaze lingering on the book, and it doesn't take him long to realize she's figured it out either. So his first reaction, as always as he assumes a mistake, is self-defense.

"It wasn't supposed to be a question, much less a demand, don't worry. I have no right to ask this of you. I just…"

"Take them," she cuts him off. She glances at him, his confused yet hopeful eyes, before looking back down to the ground. "I have no use for them anyway. You need to be careful, though, when you rip them out. Don't destroy them, will you?"

Disbelief is written all over his face, mixed with a joy, pure and foreign to Katniss. "I can under no circumstances accept your too kind offer. I may accidentally disgrace your for sure old, valuable possession."

The disappointment at his own words is evident, and Katniss can't prevent the snort from escaping her. Of course. First he looks like a child would if it was announced that Christmas had come early, then he has to go and make her -indirectly- wreck it.

But she isn't playing his game. With an exasperated sigh, she stomps -at least by her standards- over to the shelf, snatching the book from it. Careful not to bring up too much wind, for she is too fascinated by his paper-manufacturing-art to jumble it, she bends down to Peeta's place on the sofa and more or less thrusts the so-called "old, valuable possession" into his none anticipating hands.

"Quit being so stubborn. If I say you may take it, it means you're officially allowed to take it. So just…do what you're told!" Although unnerving her is an hardly an unattainable task, she surmises he's out to get on her nerves. And to makes things worse, to just push his luck, the next words leaving his mouth are "I'm very sorry, I didn't mean..."

Katniss, who definitely isn't the most patient person on the globe, can't refrain from snapping anymore. "And _will_ you stop apologizing? It's like your whole day is an alternation between saying 'sorry' and turning down offers! Can't you be selfish at least _once_?"

The last sentence wasn't meant to slip past her lips, for she hadn't even know it had been buried inside her. How is it her concern if he's selfish or not, after all?

Her inner confusion is reflected by Peeta's eyes, but she knows better than to let her realization show on her face. She isn't about to modify his furled eyebrows into their usual line, for they would when she'd humiliate herself and amuse him with it.

So instead, choosing escape over embarrassment, she wraps her fingers around her hunting bag's strap and turns on her heal, almost flying out the door, leaving him with his puzzlement at her behavior.

* * *

"Do you think I made the right decision?" Her gaze stubbornly fixed on the ground, it's the only question she has to ask her best friend after telling him about the events of the last week.

She can feel his eyes on her, gray like her own, sometimes knowing her better than she does herself, but she doesn't meet them, too afraid to be confronted with his reaction.

She hadn't believed he hadn't heard about it for a second; even he'd always claim he doesn't care about gossip and doesn't believe in rumors. They don't pass anyone, in the end everyone knows, no matter if they want to be informed or not. Strolling through the Hob often is enough, seen as it's the place where the most alcohol is consumed.

Katniss hadn't expected his immediate confrontation, however, for he had always been rather discreet about the many facts he knew. But as soon as they met up on their usual spot, hidden behind blueberry bushes facing the meadow and rocks on the far side, he'd asked her about him.

"I don't know." Gale shrugs. Katniss inwardly sighs, irritated by her best friend. Usually, he'd always have an opinion of whether her behavior had been right or wrong. Usually, though, and often just to tease her, he'd say she'd screwed up.

"I guess I wouldn't have, but it's probably about the eye of the beholder, anyway." Without allowance, her eyebrows rise quizzically, as if challenging him. As if telling him letting someone die is a sin which can't be atoned for.

"I mean, I have never been confronted with this kind of situation. But, looking on the rational side, he's only one more mouth to feed, and Katniss, you can't afford that. So why not let the stranger die, I ask you."

Now the joke's on Katniss, and she doesn't like it one bit. Justifying her actions on the day in question is something she isn't sure she can do for herself, so how is she supposed to express her feelings in words to make Gale understand?

"I'm not sure. Maybe because I held the power to help him? Could you live thinking that you're in any way responsible for someone else's death?"

Instead of understanding, incomprehension fills the boy's eyes. His lips a thin line -one she'd seen him use when he tried to cover up his sentiments in the past- he replies, "Why should I? Without an emotional bond? You would have never known you could have saved his life."

Sometimes her best friend's behavior causes her to wonder. His heart is anything but cold; she knows it's as big as can be, for he is protective of the few but important people who mean something to him, and loving towards his mother, siblings and Katniss' family. She also knows his view on life needs getting used to. It's isn't that he doesn't value it; he doesn't discount life as a curse, like Katniss on her darkest days. He much more thinks of some deaths as a necessary sacrifice, for the greater good.

Katniss shifts a little and leans backwards until her back is comfortably against the surface of one smaller rock, where she can place her head on its surface, so the stone together with the rough ground isn't prickling her anymore. She doesn't believe in "greater goods" or "sacrifices". In her opinion, it's the way of humans to excuse their destructive, damaging existence. The greater good is something they try to talk themselves into believing, so the hope they so desperately crave, so regardless of the consequences want for, which is an illusion of the perfect world, will never die.

"Maybe I would keep thinking of how I could at least have tried." Her eyes drift to the spot where tops of the trees reach the black sky. The half-moon doesn't provide the earth with the light the full one does, thus even Katniss' ability to see is limited. Only the silhouettes of the firs are visible, as they possess a darker shade of black than the sky, which is more of a dark blue. They look like shadows in the night's eeriness, unreal and unreachable, yet she only needs to reach out to touch the closest one.

In a twisted, odd way, they remind her of Peeta. How he -his past and memory- seem so unreachable. Bending her thoughts on it, she realizes only now that he could be far more similar to those trees below the night sky than she'd originally assumed. What if the answer only appears to be so far away? What if it's right in front of her, simple and plain, but unknown?

"Who do you think he is?", Katniss asks her best friend, completely out of the blue. Gale jumps slightly, having been occupied by the still, tranquil beauty of the enigmatic forest himself.

He doesn't answer right away; while he's narrowing his eyes, he's practically gnawing at the question, turning and forming the it, letting different images cross his mind, letting them stay or fly away into the abyss many good ideas have already vanished in.

He then meets Katniss' awaiting gaze, looking deeply into her eyes. "He's different. He isn't like us, I can tell even if I haven't met him." He gives the stars one long lasting before adding, "He's been rich in his former life. He's talked to people with a high social status. Probably the heir of a great fortune. Went hunting, got surprisingly attacked by a wolf, lost his weapon, which you haven't seen in the dim light. That's about it."

He observes her expectantly, waiting for a reaction. His words, which had obviously been chosen carefully, have one slight flaw she barely recognizes. She isn't even sure if it's of concern, but her remembrance evokes a memory of her telling him about bow and arrows, and his lack of knowledge about them. It may be part of his amnesia, as her mother calls it, but everything else he knows how to use, if it's from his past that is.

Suddenly, without forewarning, she rises to her feet and closes her fingers around her bow, which had been placed securely on the rock next to the one she'd been leaning in, knocking a loose stone down in the progress. Gale doesn't say anything as he follows her with his eyes, but in his gaze his wonderment is evident.

"We need to go now. We only have this night."

* * *

**Thank you for your amazing support guys, you're so awesome! All your reviews, favorites and alerts motivate me to write!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7:

"I told you I remembered them." She doesn't know how to respond to his statement, so she lets it go, partly because she's exceptionally awed by the picture, too.

Holding it firmly in one hand, afraid to drop its flawlessness, she traces the outline with her finger. It's simply perfect -from the long, dark lashes to the reticence they always mirror- ; staring right back at Katniss is her own eye, and it's not plain color -which would be hard with only a pencil anyway- but also emotion. It's somewhat frightening yet mesmerizing, watching angst and desperation unfold and play her as they please.

"How did you do it?" Her finger ghosts across the iris, careful not to disturb a single thing. She wouldn't want to destroy this perfection with her ungainly hands -which they are in comparison to the masterpiece his created.

She tears her eyes away from the breathtaking picture, just to meet blue ones which are just as beautiful, if not more so. "This cannot be mine. It's too gorgeous."

He gives her a smile, so gentle and soft it seems like another painting of his. "You ought to believe it. They are pulchritudinous, my drawing is merely a pale imitation. I wasn't worthy of trying, but I couldn't stand my own resistance. I had to succumb the temptation."

Heat creeps up her neck, causing Katniss' cheeks to flush a bright red. This is the reason she doesn't like compliments concerning her character or -in her opinion mediocre at best- appearance. Her cheeks don't redden easily, but when they do, it's a fully distinct, unconceivable blush. Which, in turn, is a manner of showing emotion, and if there's one thing Katniss despises -apart from her living conditions- it's revealing her deepest thoughts and feelings.

She turns her head, observing the ground like there's nothing she considers more enchanting. "You're wrong, you know. My eyes aren't even close to…" She wants to reuse his description, but realizes she doesn't remember. She quietly adds it to the number of words she hasn't heard of before she knew Peeta. That's why her initiated statement trails off as a question.

He laughs good naturally at her, his eyes twinkling. Katniss' blush deepens, and she's tempted to raise her head and send him a glare. "Pulchritudinous?" He chuckles again. "You don't recognize this word, do you?"

No, she doesn't. Yet she grits her teeth and refuses to meet his amused gaze. Peeta takes the silence as what it is, and, still smiling, not being able to bite it back, reveals his higher level of knowledge to her once again.

"It means beautiful, as you may have already guessed." She nods because yes, she had. She curses herself for not having his smooth words, for not being able to get back at him for practically teaching her -an after all almost grown woman- a word. "It's the adjective to pulchritude, which on the other hand is derived from the Latin word 'pulcher'. That means beautiful, also."

He's enjoying -practically- lecturing her way too much for her taste, for he sounds far too pleased with himself. She can't contain her glare any longer, and he receives it with all the ferocity she can muster at the sight of his shining face. Which isn't all that much, since she is sincerely glad he can smile after how torturous the last night must have been for him; when she got home she became a witness to his wincing and his by day concealed cries. For she didn't want to startle him, didn't want him to know she'd caught him in his moment of weakness, she sneaked into her room without saying a word, careful to not make the slightest noise.

This incident is also the reason why she decided not to bring his obsession with perfection up anymore. He'd been confused, sure, when they finally faced each other and she didn't snap again, but instead greeted him with an almost shy "Good morning."

But, being the placid boy he is, he took it lightly, his façade -or whatever it should be called- back, a smile playing his lips as he, too, bid her good morning.

"How come you recall things like that? Come on, you must remember something." Besides the fact that, quite obviously, he must have had lessons, for she never had heard a word spoken in Latin by anyone. Besides some names of plants, herbs especially, which her father chose to use, as he claimed the foreign language was far more fitting than the English one. Nature, he'd said, was something the Romans knew how to handle and define far better than the people their time.

"I do," he answers, bowing his head the way she had done earlier. Katniss, on the other hand, is simply crestfallen. Her jaw drops and she feels the uproar streaming through her body, although she knows it's a foolish matter to be upset about.

Remembering last night, forcing herself not to snap again, she asks in the kindest voice she can put up, "You do? And you didn't tell me because…?"

Even though she's trying her best, her exasperation becomes audible at the end. Only she just can't bring herself to understand this boy. Why wouldn't he tell them? Doesn't he realize they're only trying to help him gain his memory back?

He has the decency to look abashed as he detaches his eyes from the pattern of the sofa, and lets himself fall against the back. Studying a newfound -or maybe old- object; the picture of the eye, he slowly starts to speak.

"I'm deeply ashamed. I should have told you, I'm aware of that. The word stuck in my head while I was drawing and picturing your eyes, trying to catch every detail my mind was getting a grip on. And then I was in some kind of trance.

"I found myself in a sticky room with a lofty ceiling, curlicued and painted with pictures of long gone men and women, the windows closed and the curtains shutting off my view of the world outside. I was sitting on a chair, which was made of a comfortable, fleecy material, yet I found myself loathing it. I felt small and unimportant in it, like I was drowning in its gorgeousness. The only light was provided by a small candle, and I was watching the wax dripping down onto the ironclad socket. In front of me was a giant, at the edge adorned table, carved flowers and vines forming the legs, which held besides the candle only a book. This book, a rarity by itself, was even more ornate than the table, probably more precious and it must have cost a fortune, yet I almost absently reached out to open it, only fully paying attention while savoring the feeling of old, fragile and smooth paper gliding through my fingers. For some inexplicable reason, I was fascinated by it. But only until my gaze fell upon the neatly written letters, for I knew someone had carefully worked long nights to create this masterpiece. I found a word painted -calling it any less than this would be a sin- so wonderfully that I had the unsurpassable urge to trace its contour, and of course, I succumbed."

He doesn't seem to notice, but Katniss immediately knows, even before confirming her suspection, that he is drawing the same pattern he saw this very day with his fingers.

Suddenly, though, the movement stops, and a darkness she's never seen before feels his eyes. A darkness, even though she can't sense it, which is born of deep grief and desperation.

"There was another person in the room, a woman I hadn't yet paid attention to. I looked up at her, but was barely able to make out her sharp features in the dim light. It was unsettling, and I felt as if I became even smaller under her dominant eyes.

"I asked her what the word meant. I earned a discriminatory frown, but with an unnerved sigh she told me." He shudders upon describing the woman, and Katniss can't resent him for doing so. She seems an unpleasant person to be around, and her dislike for the boy is obvious, even from his words.

"I felt unwanted in that moment, which is the reason the irony struck me immediately. Pulcher. That was the word. Yet there I was, feeling ugly and idle, because I didn't know beforehand. But also, the meaning wasn't lost on me, and I could sense the author sitting over his work, painting the letters to match the word."

He had started looking out of the window while he was talking, almost as if savoring the light, which had been taken from him in his memory.

While he was talking, Katniss couldn't help but notice his passion for detail. She, herself, would probably never have noticed the table legs weren't just plain brown legs. And even in the improbable case she would have, she doubts she would depict it when retelling the story to someone on the sidelines.

Still, she is aware of the advantages this thoroughness can have, especially in his current situation. This must be where his art comes from, after all. Her instinct is always leading her way, for it has never failed her, and as she slightly leans forward, as though to test whether he's fully with her again, she possesses the presence of mind to grab the plant book, pale in comparison to the one he just particularized.

She opens it and quickly flicks through it, searching for a blank page, sighting gladly when she finds on and tears it out of its stay. Her eyes scan the room for the pencil, which she finds in range of Peeta's hand, next to a cup of peppermint tea her mother must have brought him.

While it is giving the room a new, pleasing scent, it -to Katniss' gratefulness- dispels the foul one death usually leaves hovering over their heads. She allows it to overtake her senses for a second, as she inhales deeply and fills her nostrils with the small piece of normalcy she knows to treasure like few others.

Then reality gets his cruel grip on the young girl, and her fingers close securely around the small lead encased in wood and snatch it away.

"Draw it," she tells him, holding paper and pencil out to him. "The room, the woman. Draw what you remember."

Completely perplexed, and with that reflexive, Peeta takes the offered utensils, staring at them blankly.

"Do it," Katniss instructs impatiently, effectively brushing aside the odd tingles she felt where the skin of their hands met. She can't get a grip on him not accomplishing what he's told. And under the force of her to him unexplainable glare, he obliges and touches the pencil to the paper, softly drawing the first stroke.

* * *

In all honesty, she wouldn't have needed it. The sketch, according to him only a draft of a piece he could create, is in her hands, exactly the way his first picture of her eyes was, and she is entranced just the same.

As an precise replica of his descriptions, which couldn't have been more stunning, it is far more than Katniss could ever have brought into being.

"Your art is extraordinary." She, Katniss Everdeen, isn't one to be easily impressed by anything, especially not something as trivial as art and beauty, but his way of expression feelings through his skills is something she cannot help but admire.

The theme of the picture is obvious at the first glance, to these whose mind is opened wide and attentive. Those who observe with small imagination and closed off hearts may never relish its full beauty and -brought thereby- grief.

Somehow, the young boy managed to concentrate the beholder's attention on the book, which is what he paid the most attention to. It's strange though, how the candle in the corner of his view seems to be bouncing off the light right onto the squiggled 'pulcher'. A finger is carefully placed next to it, belonging to a hand which vanishes in the corner of the picture. Another finger seems to be caressing the page, gently exploring its obvious fragileness.

While the boy's hand is being small and reserved, the one placed opposite to it seems to be strict and harsh, which matches the face connected to it. Hair -and eye color indefinable, since gray, creases on her forehead and an unwelcoming, deterrent frown, seemingly plastered constantly to her face, for Katniss can't image this woman looking any different.

"Her eyes are blue, but pale and cold. The hair is blond with small strands of gray standing out," Peeta, who noticed Katniss thoroughly observing the woman, comments.

With the practically filled spaces, the picture becomes even more lively to the girl. She stares a moment longer, before shifting gaze as well as body to be directed at him.

"Do you know who she is?" Under the pressure of her questioning eyes, his become regretful. He lowers his head while replying.

"I apologize. I don't know. Judging from the size of the room, I believe the house must have been rather large." Giant, Katniss wants to add. From the proportions of the room on the paper, it's clear that it is easily twice the size of her whole home. One _room_. She can't even imagine the grandeur the building -she doesn't dare calling it a house- he lived in must have had.

Unknown to her inner adulation, and perhaps slight pity on the -estimated by the size of his hand the time the scenario took place- small boy having to live in this enormous, probably noble edifice, he keeps talking without interruption.

"Perhaps she was a servant, ordered to teach me foreign languages. It would be a likely explanation for the bits of French, Italian, Spanish and German I remember, besides Latin of course. Although I probably wouldn't be able to strike up a conversation."

He is right, even in her opinion. Five languages -even if only pieces of it-, added to his native tongue, is more than anyone in her village can claim to speak. Even Sae, whom Katniss knows has kept track of every foreigner passing her home in the past, and always asked them to help her learn whatever words they know, only possesses knowledge of French and some Spanish, for those were the ones who came constant enough for her not to forget.

"You might be correct," she tells him, nodding her head. She looks back at the picture, trying to make out the edge of her clothing, which disappears in the dusty light. She doesn't know much about rich people, but it isn't hard to guess who is who in a house of nobles. Those clothed in sumptuous gowns or cloaks are the mistress or the mister. More simple is what the servants, the subordinates wear. Lace, sure, to display the wealth of their masters, but nothing too expensive, for she imagines it would not be suitable in either minds.

Unfortunately for her, though, the woman is too much in the dark, so Katniss isn't able to detect what she's searching for.

"Do you remember what she was wearing?" She can practically feel the blue eyes on her as she waits for his reply. After a few seconds of silent battle, she rises her head to find the confirmation of her persuasion.

He shrugs, unaware of her motives. "Not quite. Probably something fancy, because I did, too. Just consider the hemline of my sleeve." He gestures at the picture in her hands with a slight nod in its direction.

She quickly debates whether it could -in some twisted way- evoke some kind of shock, reverse his point of recovery on negatively affect him in general, but can't seem to find a possible danger. So she elucidates her theory in plain terms, hoping he'll understand what she is trying to get across.

Deep in thought, with a wrinkle appearing on his forehead, he listens. When she is done talking, though, there's an expectant expression crossing his face. "Of course. I do not know why this hasn't crossed my mind. Although I'm not sure whether it would help me remember, or how you would find out who I am."

A heavy sighs escapes her parted lips, for she'd been anticipating this question. "If she was a servant, there would be at least a small chance she is from around here." Even though someone from the village who was taught Latin seems elusive to her. "And if she is, Sae will know her."

"Your words stand to reason," he answers. "You can take the picture to this lady, I don't mind. It isn't perfect, though, so I cannot promise the woman is recognizable." His lips form a small smile before he opens them again. "Although, you could also be so kind and let me have it to correct and add some details I missed before."

He reaches out for the picture with his left hand, the pencil already in the right one, ready to set the last shadows and lines in the lacy seam, to draw another wrinkle onto the woman's face.

Almost unwillingly, she hands it out to him, giving her permission to his -to her eyes- redundant intention. After all, how can perfection be perfected?

This time, though, unlike the other times, he isn't quiet while drawing. Concentrated, yes, but not silent. Because, after only scratching was audible for a minute, he speaks up again. "It's odd."

Katniss is surprised at his statement, for she didn't expect him to talk, much less to complain -at least that is where she suspects his words are going. She examines him quizzically.

"Never before did I question my being here. I am not from your village. I woke up in your house with no memory and deadly injuries, and yet…I didn't ask. If you don't know my home, my relatives, or even my identity, why am I even here?"

She has to swallow at this. Hard. She had hoped he wouldn't notice. Because this story is what she feared telling, what she isn't supposed to tell. And yet she feels she wants to so badly; why she can't state. Perhaps so she isn't as useless, so her actions are overt. Perhaps so she isn't forced to lie anymore.

"Because you came here. With your last strength."

Is she lying? She isn't sure. "I don't know more." She is. She does. She helped him, he got here with their united strength. Alone, neither of them would have managed.

Peeta, however, seems to buy it, for he doesn't comment. Katniss is about to let out a sigh, a breath of relief, as he obviously didn't discover her untruthfulness -she likes to call it this rather than lie, since she'd been taught lying was a sin from her young days- when she hears it voice. Barely above a whisper, colder and more unmerciful than she's ever heard it before.

"What you are telling me is a lie."

**My summer break is going to start tomorrow, and I will be gone from Monday on and for two weeks. I hope I can update during that time, although I'm not sure. But I think, if there are quite (hopefully) a few reviews, I'll manage to squeeze the next chapter out on Sunday/Monday:)**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8:

"What you are telling me is a lie."

Shocked not only at his words, but also at his tone, an urge to defend herself rushes through her body. This beacons her to react the way she always does; on instinct.

"It isn't." She doesn't need to wait for his response to know she failed. Faint and low her reply had been, not strong and confident, as she would have needed it.

Almost as if to confirm her thoughts, he gives a humorless chuckle. "You aren't being plausible. You don't know how to sell your lies. Why aren't you telling me the truth?"

Because it will harm you in a way that can't be indemnified, she wants to say. But she doesn't; she holds the presence of mind to realize it would be irrational, dangerous even, considering his voice's low tone, as it seems to have dropped a level. So instead, she decides to match his tamper and answers with a snappy, "I am. Or maybe you're right, and I'm not. Maybe it's better, have you ever considered that option?"

He raises his eyebrow questioningly at her. "So leaving problems unattended is the solution to all of them?" The sarcasm is dripping off his voice like blood would from a the lips of a vampire whose thirst has just been stilled.

"It is," she confirms in a steady, confident tone, the same one she should have told the lie with to make him believe. She secretly questions how this is even a possibility. Words are words, whether they be true or false.

Sarcasm isn't lost on Katniss, of course, not in her village, not with her origin. But to her, what he's said is a statement, even if formulated as a question, and for the same reasons. It's her way of dealing with any issue she might stumble across, with every rock that might be laid onto her road. If she ignores it and moves straight forward, the problem will solve itself eventually. The only one she has to work for is survival -anything else is plain unnecessary. Humans aren't immortal, and those are always the cause of every trouble anyway.

"How can't you see it's not?" Upset, he drops the pencil, whose scratching had long since stopped, for he'd been too occupied by her words, and it lands on the floor with a clatter. Katniss, too, had forgotten about his drawing, and follows his with anger shaking hands with her eyes as he carefully sets it down on the table.

"Well, present me another one and I'll be all ears. Until then, quit trying to change my convictions." A task only few people had dared to attempt, and none of them had succeeded. In her opinion, it is impossible to manage to get through her thick walls of stubbornness and self-protection. Walls which can not on any terms be shattered, for it would be against nature for Katniss to show emotions of any kind, be it pain, desperation or happiness, which is rare in her life anyway. The period where she would is long since gone, another stage of life had begun five years ago, and now Primrose is the only man who gets to see her expressing more than anger or frustration.

"Speech. It's the only way of communicating humans without some kind of mystic special bond have discovered, and it helps coping with whatever may block your way more than repressing your memories, no need to thank me for presenting you the easiest of all answers." Hard-headedly, the cunningly selected terms roll of his tongue with ease. Pleased with himself, he sends her a calmed, boastful smirk.

Which, in return, receives the best glare Katniss can muster. "Aren't you smart," she spits through gritted teeth, effectively covering her lack of a refutation, "Can't you just drop it? I'll tell you when I get permission from your doctor to do so, not sooner. It's better, believe me. You don't really want to know."

With that, having her eyes had riveted on the paper the whole time while talking, she grabs the picture, now extended with his precious particulars.

"I sincerely hope it looks decent to you now," she tells him coolly. "Because I am still going to help you. As I understand to."

And without wasting a last glance, she turns her back on him and walks straight out of the door.

* * *

The stool makes a scratching noise as Katniss pulls it back over the uncovered ground, which is comprised of flat rocks, hidden underneath several layers of coal dust.

She lets herself slump onto it, the fragile legs toppling slightly under her sudden weight. Her hands are placed at the counter -more particularly, the worn, scratched, wooden surface the bowls get situated on for customers, and she is boring her fingernails into it, as if blackening them could somehow magically relieve some of the gathered stress.

"Sae?", she calls out. The old woman turns around as fast as her aged body will allow her upon hearing the young girl's voice. Her face lights up immediately, as it always does when she gets to serve her favorite trader.

"If it ain't our young Everdeen. What's the cause of your visit? Missed good ole' Sae?" She chuckles at her own joke, baring the teeth she's still got left, which have become yellow in all the years the woman has now been inhabiting the earth, causing a slight smile to spread across Katniss' face, relieving some of her tension caused by the boy at her home. One of the reason she likes her is Sae's ability to actually squeeze an upturning of her lip's corners out of her.

Sae shuffles her way over to Katniss, pushing past some of her regular customers, telling them to "Show some respect an' let an ole' woman pass!"

She glares at their backs when she finally reaches the young girl, mumbling curses about how they should be a better example for the youth. "Promise ya'll never be like 'em. My dyin' wish."

Katniss former amused expression turns serious at this, for she doesn't like hearing Sae talk about death. She's done it before, quite a few times already, but the young girl is convinced the sage hasn't reached her last breath by a long stretch. She's far too spirited and wise to leave. "You're not going to die," Katniss states in a serious voice. "But if it is so precious to you, and makes you feel better, I promise."

"When'd precious find it's way int' your vocabulary?" The frown is replaced by an approving -yet somewhat mocking- smirk at the girl's usage of language.

Katniss, however, who hadn't exactly paid attention to her choice of words, snorts disdainfully, being reminded of the itchy problem which is the reason for her being at the Hob.

"Around the same time a certain someone started talking to me like one would to our dear monarch."

Her reply holds the same sarcasm Peeta's did earlier as she stresses the _dear_. Smart it is, for sure, as no one, not even the always rumaging guards, could arrest her. How would the justify it, after all? How would they reason? There is no way to establish proof of irony or sarcasm, which is the reason why most people are used to speak with this undertone day in, day out.

Sae's grin grows wider, and Katniss has the sudden urge to shift her gaze away; not only because the elder is -wrongly- amused at her cost, but also because the black edges of her damaged teeth show now, causing the young girl's stomach to turn in disgust, for she can't stand to see any part of a human's body sick.

"Havin' boy troubl's, girl? Had it, too, at your age. Desired I was." Contempt and a little self-admiration is written all over her face at the last sentence.

Katniss, though, gives the woman an exasperated look. Not only could she have lived without this knowledge just fine -for her interest in those kind of affairs had always been non-existent, much to her sister's disappointment at some points-, but this fact is also greately overweighted by her shock at even the suspection -or, how she would rather call it- accusion of her being involved in this sort of relationship.

Upon this trail of thoughts, much to her displeasure, an image of her and the blonde creeps its way into her head, and at the sae time causes a blush to spread across her cheeks.

Of course, just her luck, the dimness of the old, decaying building doesn't cover her embarrassed flush, and a -what is assumed to be- knowing smile is sent her way.

Luckily, one could say, for it snaps her out of her state of daze, and disapprovingly, addressed as well at her own thoughts as at Sae, she shakes her head to clear it.

"No!", she barks out, as if she was held a knife to her throat. With a sharp glare, she continues, "You're at this again? Didn't I give you my piece of mind concerning this matter often enough?"

Sae visibly fakes her abashed expression, which in turn deepens Katniss' frown. She is beginning to feel more than upset with this woman.

"So what's bringin' ya 'ere?"

She successfully regains her composure -now having realized how important it is to the young girl and not wanting to get on her bad side- by turning serious, convincing Katniss with the sober glint in her eyes, which also saves her from father fueling the girl's anger.

Katniss herself breathes in some of the dirty, filthy air, before exhaling loudly but seeably calmed. Another two minutes pass by before her resentment has fully disappeared.

"This," she says, reaching into her pants' pocket to pull out the neatly folded paper, which she didn't want to carry in her (from the counter) coal-covered hands, for it is too gorgeous and, of course, precious in her opinion, and the Hob is infamous for its amount of expanse that is hidden by coal. Ugly, gray coal, so different from the subtle gray lines Peeta's pencil left on the page.

She brings it up to her lips and blows onnce, effectively freeing it of any dirt it could have gathered, for some is inevitable. While she holds it out for Sae to examine, she starts explaining,

"In a way you were right. He -the boy- drew it; a memory from his past. I'm not in interested in the letters," she clarifies, having followed the woman's gaze, which was immediately fixed on the -admittedly- skilfully beautiful written book. It was unexpected, of course, for this had been the artist's intention. Fot this had been his own main interest.

"Focus on the woman. I am aware you probably don't recognize her -I wouldn't blame you-, but I'd be thankful if you at least tried."

Sae only grimaces, to the girl's surprise, scrunching her nose and furrowing her brows, causing even more wrinkles to appear on her wafer-thin face.

"'air color? Eyes?"

Still deep in thought she asks those questions, not even shifting to look at Katniss. Almost like in trance it seems, or like an invegistating detective.

"Blond with gray strands," Katniss answers, recalling Peeta's words from earlier, "and blue eyes."

The elder nods absently, as if at something else, something far away, but the younger knows she listened and understood, for she's known Sae for so long now.

"Always same frown?"

At this, Katniss hesitates. Of course she can't tell of own experience, for this drawing isn't a piece of her personal past, but she remembers herself picturing the woman with an ever-present frown plastered on her face upon hearing Peeta's description of a cold, somewhat indifferent and mildly aggressive person.

She bites her lip before replying, "I do think so, although I can't be certain. Peeta -the boy-", she adds, not sure if she ever told Sae his name, "only portrayed her as somewhat embittered. So I could imagine..."

But she doesn't get to finsih her sentence, because Sae unexpectedly snaps out of the depths of her mind and speaks up, disregarding what Katniss was going to say.

"Yeah," she startles the younger out of her trail of words. "Wou'n't say I r'member her."

At this, the girl's face, which had held just the slightest trace of hope, falls, only now fully realizing what an impasse Peeta's case always had been and always would be.

"But," Sae adds, regaining Katniss' attention, "'ve seen 's woman." She points at her, as if to emphasize what she'd just claimed.

The girl's eyes, however, are bulging, seemingly out of their orbits, and her jaw saggs. Scarecely seconds after she'd given up, once again tried to realize that hope doesn't, shouldn't, and wouldn't ever exist, there must be something new.

The woman doesn't leave her an opportunity to voice the questions that begin to buzz through her head like bees do through their honeycombs Katniss gathers from trees and has fought with bears over. Instead she answers her questions without needing to receive them.

"Don't know when. Not where. 's a long time ago. But she was here once. Younger, more beautiful, though still with this frown."

How could she have been so foolish? Sae may have seen her, this foreign woman- once, but Sae has met many people in the many years she's lived. It would be silly to believe she could find this one, remember where she is from, or even her name. Katniss curses herself for being what she considers reckless and naive, actually even reflecting upon few words summarizing few seconds as a possibility.

Still, now that the spark has been inflamed, she cannot extinguish it. This is the thing with hope; they say hope dies last, and Katniss believed for the longest time that it had already died -after her father had left-, but somehow it returned to her, somehow it had never been completely away, never fully drowned by desperation. Just like this time.

"But there _must_ be something else. A name, even if it's only in this connection, a place, anything." She can hear the pleading tone in her voice, and she doesn't like it at all. It shouldn't be this important to her. She shouldn't care this much. She met him such a short amount of time ago, yet she cares for him dangerously much, even if she may not -want to- admit it to herself, and shrug it off as wanting to get rid off him -which is easy after his recent behavior- rather than wanting to really help him get his past and memory back.

Sae's sympathy is evident on her face, which is also unreservedly showing off her concern. Never has she experienced Katniss caring for someone -besides her sister- this fast, and it visibly worries her.

Katniss, however, doesn't notice, for she is far too captured by the woman's next words. "'s when times were better. Y'know, b'fore the witch. Must've been 'round the time ya were born. 'm sorry girl, don't r'member more. 'll sure tell ya when."

* * *

"I'm so very sorry."

She jumps at the loud sound of his voice, not having expected it and much less having been prepared, especially not after being in the Hob for the last hour, where quiet is written with a capital Q, for no one, not even the other criminals who are bribing or blackmailing each other and selling their hot goods, must hear them. Because gossip's G is at the minimum as huge as quiet's Q.

"Well, you should be," she tells him, quickly regaining her composure and putting on a perfect, long-studied poker-face, effectively hiding her emotions. Although among them is no quilt; it wasn't her practically attacking him with voice, words and those oddly uncharacteristiclly frigid eyes, which are now emiting guilt.

"I am m'lady," he replies with sincerity and an affirming nod. "You have shown me nothing but kindness, a feeling I perceive as a rarity and thus valuable. And I thank you with aggressiveness and even unpredictability." He sighs heavily, regretfully, before adding, "you should abandon me. I do not want to harm you."

"Don't be foolish." At first she thinks the answer had come from her own lips, in a high-pitched voice, so very different than usually, but then she realizes it hadn't, for Peeta's gaze immediately shifts to the door frame none other than Primrose, Katniss' little sister is leaning against.

"I did not patch you up to practically throw you to the wolves." Only then strikes her the irony of the idiom, which is naturally lost on Peeta, but not on her sister, who rewards her with an evil look. After all, even if Prim doesn't know, this had been the cause for his strange episode and their fight, and, in turn, the reason for his new figment.

None of the sisters notices the flash in his eyes at her words, too occupied by their silent exchange. It vanishes as fast as it came, and he surely doesn't recall the incident which provoked this, but the wolf does still appear in front of his very eyes, flawlessly snow-white in the moonlight, snarling and with piercing, dangerously glimmering yellow eyes, ready to kill.

And no matter how much he tries, he won't forget.

* * *

**Uff. I went away earlier than I thought (cause Germany lost in semi-final against Italy. For those who aren't from Europe, yesterday was the final of the European Football Championship, and if Germany had played, I would have been home watching with my friends), but at least I manage to update today, on Monday. From now on my updates may not be as frequent as I'd like them to be, but I do hope to update at least once a week.**

**Furthermore I apologoze for any misspellings you may find, I don't have 'Microsoft Words' right now, and with that no help other than my dictonary.  
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**I hope you like the chapter. If so, let me know in a review. They really motivate me:)  
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	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: One every five chapters. So no, I do not own the Hunger Games**

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Chapter 9:

It's true; one month is an awfully short amount of time. For people who wake nights and days as well as those who rise every morning and falls asleep once the sun sets. Merely four weeks, and only one full moon.

But also it must be admitted that one month can hold events one year wouldn't, if it was a usual one.

For once, Katniss Everdeen would never dare to call her month normal. Dare she call it a good one? She won't claim to. Although, strictly speaking, it was strongly suspected to be worse, much worse. For this month, she'd had a mouth to feed she'd never even dreamed of providing before; she'd had a guest and patient, a noble one at that.

And this man is in her debt, however much her sister may try to deny it. And a debt not easily paid it is; he is owing her no less than his life. Katniss, though, sees said guilt as adequate, for her life had always been a game of debtors and creditor, and she'd played both parts -more often the former than the latter, much to her disdain.

Concerning the man, the month had been eventful as well as slow-going. For damage can be done in a second, while recovery may take a whole life and beyond that. Both can be crucial or disastrous, depending on the eye of the beholder.

While the first week after Peeta's life-altering incident had been amazingly forthcoming, the following three had handed them nothing but backstrokes. Sae's remembrance only faltered further, Peeta's didn't bring a new insight either, since none of it went back to where it belonged; into his mind.

Fate is a cruel, unequable, affair. Some rich, some poor, some old, some young -if it was fair, everyone would be blessed with the same wealth and age.

Katniss doesn't believe in fate, neither in chance. Because if she did, she would have to believe it had endowed her all the doom it had taken away from others, and given those every ounce of fortune it had ripped from her outstreched, all too willing hands.

For on extremely rare occasions, once in a blue moon, it may allow her to keep some luck, if it is well-earned. And if Katniss was like her sister profoundly convinced that fate exists, she would realize that it remunerated her magnificently for her kindness, rewarded her in a way no human could. Not even with all money in the world.

But who does not believe cannot see clearly and therefore, in the girl's point of view, the arrow which had pierced the deer's head had been driven by skill, not by luck. The money she'd received had been paid by the butcher, not Lady Fortune, and the pride and filled stomachs and bright smiles she'd been thanked with had been given to them by herself, not by chance.

And in a way, she is right. Only it isn't what it looks like, not in fate's opinion. For the deer was not shot by the arrow that gored its own head, it was killed by the same one which was the death of another beast; an awfully beautiful wolf.

So the starving family had been recompensed with food and money for a month, a month in which they had not once gone hungry, not once been sent to bed with a rumbling -since empty- stomach. A month easy in comparision to many others, a month where fate had been favorable.

And Katniss would never admit to it, but she had once questioned her disbelief, once even considered such a thing as higher powers. Only to momentarily dismiss the thought, to pretend it had never subsisted. It's a valuable lesson she has yet to learn, still, even after fate took her youth -not in appearance but in reason and experience. She can lie to anyone, even if only in words. But she cannot lie to herself.

"If I asked you who in this village could give me some work, so I can give _you_ a hand and help you with your hard task, would you have an answer I'd like?" If someone had told her a boy her age was able to put on a hangdog look which could easily compete Primrose's, they would have received what one shall consider an incredulous, coming from her cruel laugh, and told them it would be absolutely ridiculous.

Now a bitter smile is drawn across her face. Bitter because she knows she doesn't have a chance against him, bitter because had she not seen it herself, she would never have believed it. But a smile nevertheless, for his eyes are heartwarming, even to her ice-guarded feelings.

"You're smiling," Wonderment resonates in his gentle voice, justified wonderment. Known to him, Katniss refuses to even smirk, and no one but her sister would attain a laugh from her. He'd heard it only once, but still the carillion-like sound rings in his ears, as if it was never-fading music. Clear and carefree her voice had been, making him ask himself if it would jingle if she sang. More than once he'd been tempted to ask her, but her repellent facade had scared the boy off.

Katniss, however, momentarily recovers, forcing her features back into their usual frown. She cannot afford to show feelings in front of him, not even after a month of living with him.

"That shouldn't concern you. I do as a matter of fact know of a man who needs help, but it requires physical strength. Lots of, and around the clock also."

Peeta doesn't miss her change of mood, neither the refusal to tell him whatever job she has to offer. She, herself, has a reason to be wary. If he worsened his condition by overrestimating himself, the boy would only extend his stay in Katniss' home, thus her task of feeding him, giving him food her own flesh and blood so desperately craves. And she can't afford to have him for a winter, where meat is rare and plants are extinct, even if only for the season. Those months where they have to gnaw at bark and roots to fill their aching stomaches, for gathered money -no matter how carefully deployed- is never enough to get through the freezing time. With another mouth, they might have to go weeks without any kind of real nourishment. By then, the young man must be able to make his own money, build his own hut and scrape by without depending on Katniss' small family.

"I do not fight shy of heaviness. My arms are built to lift about twice my own weight, if not more."

She snorts at the pride in his voice, for it is downright misplaced -his words are only confirming what she fears; there's a huge possibility he's going to want -and ultimately try- to exceed his abilities.

"Don't speak too highly of yourself. But you may have forgotten, even though your arms might functioning properly, there is no proof your leg will. You can walk again, true, but not with any heft, you haven't tried. What if your leg can't sustain more than your body?"

Peeta, disregarding her cautinousness as an overacted decision to protect her authority, which she uses to stengthen the walls guarding her from possible mental harm, rolls his eyes. Slightly only, for he can't have her see his merriment at her childish way of wanting to keep power. It would only upset her, which he can't afford if he wants to have a job to provide for himself.

Thankfully, he is aware of all those facts. "How will I know? If I never try," He sighs at her none-fading hard expression. "You know you God did not bless you with the ability to feed a grown man and your family forever. You know I'm right. I need to take care of myself, I'll have to repay somewhen."

Her trail of thoughts, exactly. Only she can't admit this to him, for she that would mean she'd approve of his idea.

But then again, she remembers, he's a noble. The work she has to offer is disgracing and simple, not as elegant as hunting and reading. Surely he would never take something plain, modest, which doesn't earn him much.

"The baker needs new men to gather the sacks filled with flour from the local miller, who may also order you to gather grain from the fields, since he needs every hand he can get at the moment. Flour in bulk weights, and not too scarce. It's not only heaving, it's also walking. But it's the only work my small village has. Strong, well-fed men are rare, and those scraggy ones would collapse."

Too late is it she realizes the way she's praising him, too late to extinguish the spark of determination in his eyes.

"So I will act till I am one of them." He smiles kindly at her, indicating that he's joking, but he cannot fool her. Not this time. He's serious, bitterly so.

"Don't talk like that. I forbid you to think like that. What did my sister tell you? We did not patch you...", only then she recalls Prim's exact words. But she cannot resay them, for he still isn't aware of what happened to him, "...in vain."

His eyes narrow in a manner which can't be spotted by human ones. The usually bright blue turns just the slightest shade darker. "But that weren't Primrose's words."

Inwardly, she is shocked, not having been prepared for this kind of statement, but she struggels to feign indifference. "Well, it's been a few weeks. I'm sorry I don't store every single phrase my sister said in her life."

Her voice is too high-pitched, too cracking to be telling the truth. Peeta's smiling somewhat cruelly, for he can sense her lie. "If I may refresh your memory; she said she wouldn't want to throw me to the wolves. It's an idiom, meaning she doesn't want to leave me to death's vicious claws."

He ponders his next words, his chances, for if they came out of his mouth the wrong way, he would earn silence. "But I wondered if there was more to it. There is something I haven't shown to you. Something I hid away right after I drew it."

Her eyes become large at his confession. She can guess -it doesn't take more brain than you need to count to three- but she doesn't want to believe it, for it would mean admitting that he remembers, remembers what he shouldn't.

Her little -but existent- hope is shattered as he carefully, as not to disturb its tidyness and prevent the feathers from spilling, removes the pillow and pulls out the picture, brushing a lone down away before handing it to her with shaky fingers.

"I know it shouldn't", he says hesitantly, "It's my drawing after all. But it arouses fear in me for a reason I can't grasp."

She cannot resent him for dreading this beast. Baring its pearly teeth, ready to jump at whoever may be looking at it, the wolf, even in only the picture, is nothing she'd want to have beneath her head while sleeping. "Did you hide it because you didn't want to see it?"

He's gnawing at his lip while watching her, silently hoping he won't upset her. Not only is her face scrunched up in anger an unleasant sight, also it reminds him of the woman he drew once, and he doesn't want to be reminded of her. He feels coldness and resentment only thinking of her, and is almost plagued by the fact that he cannot explain why.

"Partly," But there's no good in lying when you've already told the truth, "Still I also did it because I didn't want you to know."

She lifts her head to look at him, not with anger but curiosity. He is relieved, visibly so, but also surprised. He's used to her being rather impulsive, not calm, when she discovers something has been kept from her. She reacts to lies in a way similar to him, even if he cannot control himself, unlike her.

"But why? You have told us about a dark camber you'd been locked in. Why not about this wolf?"

Peeta shudders at the rememerance, and Katniss herself has a uneasy feeling thinking about it. It had been one of his dreams, where he'd been around fourteen. He'd heard screams, female screams, in the background, but their producer'd seemed to be out of reach. Peeta'd struggled to find light, but there had been none, and the screams grew louder, closer and more merciless until they were unbearable enough for him to be scared out of his dream and awake with a start. He'd told them immediately; a game they'd practiced. First he hadn't remembered, but eventually they'd told him. He'd been reluctant to keep this up, for he hadn't been to thrilled about their knowledge of his worst dreams, but had to admit every source of information was needed and agreed to their methods. Only he'd made them swear they'd tell him what he'd seen.

"Because it feared me the most. Because somehow, I had a feeling it was something I shouldn't see."

Katniss bites her lip, for he is right. He shouldn't. And it unsettles her, as with this awareness, there's a new question. Is he ready, his recovery progressed far enough to be told the truth? And if she surrenders in this concern, can she still convince him not to work?

She looks at the picture again, menacing and daunting as it is. How long, how many hours of staring will it take him to figure it out for himself? Will it make matters worse or strengthen him?

"What else do you remember that is related to this beast?"

She is not talking about animals. But if she can bring him to recall some feelings, deep or ostensibly not appreciable, it cannot shock him. At least this she believes, for how should events take a different turn?

Unconsciously, she leans forward, so her elbows are resting on her knees, and her face is closer to his, forcing him to look at her.

"First there's only panic, shall I take a glance at it," He points at the picture, "but my mind won't let it last. Hope mixes with it, although it does not replace. Then relief and after that...there is nothing. No feelings left."

So he must be blind, she thinks. Can't he piece it together? To her, it appears to be obvious, easy. Perhaps because she knows. Perhaps because you never see what's right in front of you.

Suddenly, she remembers the very first words he ever spoke to her. The flattering question, which would make her blush coming from someone fully aware of what he's saying. Strange, how she hears them now clearly.

"Where's the hope coming from?" She is painfully aware of an answer so tangible, and it oddly tears at her heart -something she can determine flawlessly is faint to him, if so.

He squints, a blind man trying to see light instead of darkness, and she's tempted to reach out for him and cover his hand with her own -as if she could transfer her memories, fills his brain with them.

He smiles, with only his half mouth turning upwards, as if fantasizing. "You may call me foolish. But there was an angel. An angel with..."

"...my eyes," Katniss adds. A halfsmile also covers her face, although it's of a different nature. Not only is it a smile itself, a miracle when it comes to her, it's also what would be defined as gentle.

He lifts his head in wonderment, only to meet said eyes. "I am no angle, Peeta. I already told you."

There's a softness in her voice unfamiliar to both of them. Instead of anger at his supposed cockiness she felt back then, there's sympathy. Sympathy for a boy who lost everything, and therefore does not deserve her resentment.

He has done nothing wrong. It was fate, playing its cruel game with him. Even if Katniss may not believe it, it's true. Fate influenced both their lives greatly, and from what it took from them, it must have nourished others with profusion and fortune.

"You?"

She nods.

"But how...?"

"I'm a huntress, remember? It was saving you or leaving you to the mercy of the wolf." Her hand places itself at his healthy knee, as if to reassure him. He looks lost, staring into nothingness, trying to search images in his head.

"Why were you shining?", he asks eventually, earning confusion from her. She doen't remember any source of light other than the full, bright moon.

"I wasn't. You must have imagined it." It's the only reason which isn't supernatural, and for Katniss doesn't believe in those kind of things, the only reason possible.

"So...you saved me? My life?" Shock registers on his face and his body stiffens. He'd owed her enough as it was already; although he could have guessed it, this is something he cannot repay with money.

"I did," she sighs. "But you would have done the same for me, even without knowing me, that I trust." She is not lying. Neither can she lie that well, nor does she see a reason. For it's true; this boy would not let a man die, not if he could help it.

He nods, slowly, but his face betrays his emotions. He is still upset, with whom he isn't particularly sure.

"Tell me," he bursts after a minute of silence, "Tell me what you remember. Please."

She doesn't need to look at him to know he's begging with his eyes, and there's no chance she could deny it. And so, for the fourth time, she relates the story of the fateful night.

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**I feel very guilty for letting you wait, but I wrote whenever I had spare time. I hope you liked the chapter. If so, would you tell me? I'd love you if we reached 100 reviews with this chapter! I promise not to let you wait as long as I did for the next chapter.****  
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	11. Chapter 11

**Oooh,** **thank you! I have my 100 reviews! I'm so happy! You're amazing! Thanks again!:D**

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Chapter 10:

His eyes are wide, unblinking, his mouth slightly agape, and his gaze is not riveted on Katniss, but on the picture she is holding faintly in her hand, a picture showing his unconscious fear, which is caused by the story she has just finished telling him; even if it doesn't seem real to him, even if it seems like a nightmare he shall wake from at any moment.

Seconds, minutes, hours, even days might have gone by unnoticed when he can finally shift his head to look up at the anxious girl hovering over him, a hand placed soothingly at his knee. She cannot divine his thoughts, if there are any. Nearly empty, if it wasn't for the glimmer in his bright blue eyes showing her he's still present, still alive. It's almost frightening to her, for usually, those orbs shine with life, despite their owner's past -or lack thereof.

"Are you allright?", she asks tentatively, as not to startle him. Unfortunately, though, she has a feeling this deed has already been done. And if she hadn't been studying him as closely as she was, she wouldn't have seen the barely visible nod he gives. So at least he's with her. At least he isn't gone the way her mother was; still is.

"Say something, would you?" Her tone too pleading for her likes, she increases the pressure she exerts on his knee. Sensing this he does, and a strange tingle of comfort rushes through him; something he can't remember having experienced ever before.

"What am I supposed to say?", he breathes the words, barely above what'd be considered audible. Forlorn, fittingly, is his face.

Katniss can only shrug, contagioned by his mood, and at a loss of words, as she often is. "I don't know."

Suddenly he jerks upwards, rising to his feet and shaking her hand of in the prgress, causing her to jump and her chair to grate in protest. "You've just told me you saved my life, Katniss. The same, I knew before, also goes for your sister and mother. Do you know what this means? To me? I shouldn't be accepting your all too lavish offers -you cannot afford them-, I should be at my knees thanking you, show gratefulness by working till my body won't obey my orders anymore."

The volume vanishes from his voice as he goes from shouting to whispering. "That's not how I have been educated."

He sinks back into the sofa, his body falling aimlessly, seemlingly exhausted. But this isn't what Katniss concentrates on. Not his anger, either. Those are justified, she knows, for her reaction may not have been the same outwardly, but inwardly for sure. No, she devotes her attention to the very last statement, which would have been the most ordinary to any foreigner, but did sound the oddest to her. Also the most special.

"You think you've been educated like that? Or you know?" She can barely contain the excitement she's feeling, and it is only dammed by his glowering gaze. Obviously he has still anger left, hasn't wreaked every last bit.

"I think," he growls, "No, I know. Or...I...I'm not sure. I know it, not based on a memory but on a...sense." He's stuttering critically, and somehow his body is reacting, too, by drawing itself deeper into the cocoon blanket and sofa build, as if they could shield him from his own thoughts and words.

He's scared, she can sense it, the way he senses his past. Scared of himself, of her, she can't tell. Only the urge to reach out to him again, the urge to console him, tell him it'll be alright has returned. In this state he reminds her of Prim, weak and small, and by rescuing him, she has made him her protégé, someone it counts to protect, someone she can't leave to suffer.

But Katniss cannot heal him like she healed her sister; her soul had not been as devastated, for only one part of her had vanished. And she cannot simply give him food; he is well-fed already, hadn't been starving afore. But she can't give him love either, can't love anyone as much as Prim.

She can take care of him, though, even if words may fail her often. Slowly her hand moves, without waiting for her approvement, until her fingers rest next to his. She'd put her arms around Prim whenever the younger girl would worry or cry, but Peeta is different, for he isn't only not part of her family, it also hasn't gone unnoticed by her that he is indeed a male, and she does not embrace body contact with men, as distinguished from other girls her age. It seems awkward to her, and it might signal romantic interest, something she would never want to convey.

He looks down hesitantly, silently questioning her intentions, as she touches the tips to his. On instinct he shies away, but even if he may not want to admit it, he'd also felt a tingling sensation, one he couldn't define. And neither could she, as he cautiously brings his hand to hers again, allowing her to run her thumb soothingly over the back.

She looks at him, a serious though soft expression gracing her face as she says, "You'll remember, just like you remembered the feelings you had when the wolf was attacking. Those feelings come first, the memories will follow."

She doesn't know whether what she is telling him is the truth, but if he believes her, she tries to convince herself, the events she describe shall take place eventually.

"Do you have faith in your own words?", he asks. For once she's glad he isn't glancing at her while talking, for she isn't sure she could lie to the hope she suspects in his eyes.

"I do." But when she says them, she isn't even sure she is lying.

* * *

"So? What did he say?" She almost doesn't have to ask, for his appearance tells her before his mouth can. His anyway curly hair is ruffled, sticking into different directions, his face and clothes are a shade too white -for he is covered in flour from head to toe- and he is beaming so brightly she can't help but smile a little herself. Also, there's a slight limp visible, but it doesn't appear to be bothering him.

He slumps onto the sofa as soon as he reaches it, sighing in exhaustion and contempt, the broad smile still not wiped off his face.

"What do you think?", he asks teasingly, as if trying to keep her in suspense.

"Why, I don't know," she replies, deciding to play his game. His mood had improved by a great deal ever since she relented and promised she'd bring him to the baker. He'd explained to her how much this would enhance his recovery as well as his state of guilt, and she'd prayed he was telling the truth.

"Oh, but I believe you do." He looks as though he's about to poke her belly, as she would do to Prim, which makes her unconsciously retreat a step. Peeta himself, of course, hadn't thought of doing so, was only trying to get a laugh out of her again. He still wanted to know whether it'd sound like singing again.

Now, though, he's reminded of her reluctance to even smile -which, though, in all modesty, he has accomplished afore, and more than once. Still, the opportunity is gone.

"He allowed me to work for him," Peeta says, the humor having faded from his voice. Katniss feels slightly guilty about it; he hadn't done anything to upset her after all, and she'd taken his well-deserved delight; but is glad the moment didn't turn out too awkward for both of them.

"That's great." Suddenly her words sounds shy, low. She blames it on the liability and decides not to spare more thought on it.

Instead she reaches down to put on her hunting boots, for a glimpse out of the window tells her the hour is getting to its end, and the new one is going to bring the darkness which will settle over the village and leave it oblivious to Katniss' hunting trips.

"Was it very demanding?" She glances up shortly, excepting his answer. He hesitates, pondering on how much to tell her. But then he realizes, she can't forbid his actions any more, not without bringing a new employee. And where would she get one? The sacks are too heavy for her small frame. They'd crush her in a second.

Peeta shrugs eventually. "Not for my arms, no."

But the indication isn't lost on Katniss either, and she is tempted to send him a pitiful I knew it look. She doesn't, though, because she knows what being pitied means. And she also knows she wouldn't want it herself, if their roles were switched.

"But for your legs, it was," she mumbles, only half wishing for him to hear. The sad look flashing in his eyes tells her he has. Of course he has.

"It doesn't matter," he tells her with utter conviction -even if it's only meant for Katniss. "I don't mind. It's worth it."

She nods stiffly, wondering where their easy mood from earlier had vanished to. They'd been playing a childish game, yes, but what was the harm in that? Katniss hadn't been a child as long as she should have.

"Of course it is," she sighs before rising from her squatting position and grabbing her leathern jacket.

He shakes his head, pretending not to have noticed her comment -or not to have a reaction- when in reality, it is tearing at his heart how sparse her faith in him is.

"The time has come already, hasn't it?", he says, gesturing to her change of attire. He chuckles suddenly, making her head shoot up, confused as to what the cause for his amusement is.

"How do you see it?", he reasons, catching her eyes on him and sensing her wonderment. "The sky hasn't even changed colors yet."

To his surprise, her brows contract further instead of easing back. "But it has." She bends down to his level, to get the same view of the sky he has. And, partly to her relief, she finds it's a perfect blue seen from here, the shades of pink and orange further up, on the horizon, not even to be anticipated. And better it is, too, for him going blind would be the last thing she could deal with.

"You just can't see it from your sofa."

"But if I can't, there's still light out there. Why are you already preparing? Usually, you wait till darkness consumes every single house."

He's right, she does. Or at least, in the month he's lived here she did. Before it wasn't uncommon for her to leave earlier, stroll through the Hob and see if she could get a new arrowhead, or something she could transform into one. They wear off or break if used on a daily basis, and Katniss has no other choice but to do so. True, she has three dozen arrows, and two to three heads may break in a year, but she doesn't like being unprepared -especially when the survival of her family is concerned-, and a thunder storm might always disturb one of the tree trunks she's hid them in, and what if there aren't new ones available at that time? She simply cannot afford to leave it to coincidence and luck. After all, she doesn't even believe in the latter.

"I might pay the Hob a visit. I'm going to be wearing those clothes tomorrow, too, and I don't want the coal dust sticking to it all day. The jacket I can simply brush off." After all, leather is easy to keep clean. It's sturdy. That's why she'd never give it away -aside from the fact that her father once wore it- no matter how much money would surely be offered.

He raises an eyebrow. "What would you want there? Have you forgotten to give Sae last night's game?"

He hasn't even met Sae, yet he could remember her name from the very first time she told him about her. He once stated this woman, even if only the tale of her, would never be forgotten, not by him, not by anyone. Katniss couldn't help but smirk at the truth of this; it had been the first time she'd smiled in his presence and at something he said.

"No I haven't. But -if you aren't too exhausted, and don't mind of course- perhaps I could introduce you to her," she bursts out, having no idea from which grave of her thoughts her words came. But they're out, and she cannot decide whether she regrets them.

He smiles kindly at her, already clutching both ends of the sofa in order to help him to rise; it's the only problem he has with his leg and admits to. "Of course. I'd love to get to know her. She must be quite interesting, from what you tell me."

"Oh," she breathes, "she sure is."

* * *

"'s told me quite a lot 'bout ya, boy."

Katniss' eyes are wide open in disbelief. They've only just come to stop in front of her counter, yet Sae knows exactly whom she's facing.

Well indeed, the woman knows every face of the village, even if she can't name them, but surely it would take her a while to recognize one she'd only seen once or twice before?

She feels Peeta's eyes on her, questioning, as she sinks onto a stool, but she can only offer him a weak shrug. How is she supposed to answer if she doesn't know herself?

Peeta, though, when he looks at Sae, dissembles his wonderment, hides it behind one of his perfect smiles. "I could say the same about you. If you're the infamous Sae, that is."

She grins at his words, this time catching only him off guard. Katniss herself can barely suppress a smile; his way of talking might be familiar to her now, but to Sae there was irony in his words, humor. And to his luck, her sense of humor.

"A smart one, I see." Still smirking, she saunters closer to them. "Was wonderin' when she'd bring you 'ere."

Suddenly, moving more swiftly than anyone who doesn't know her would think she is capable of, she seizes his collar, pulling him closer to her, eyeing him suspiciously. "'side from that 'bashed 'xpression of his, lad's quite good lookin'. Bit too sly for my taste."

She lets him go and he shakes his head, still slightly shocked. Katniss, however, decides it's time to put her foot down, before Sae scares the boy away. But, before she can even open her mouth, Peeta beats her to it.

"How am I sly? You don't even know me."

At this, the elder begins to laugh wholeheartedly, as if he had accomplished something. Katniss, though, can only sigh.

"Sae reads people. Almost every idiom and proverb I know, I know from her. She believes in most of them, but especially in eyes are the window to the soul. I wouldn't take it too seriously."

Sae, however, snorts, her laugher having died down. "'n that's what I saw in 'er. Disbelief. 'n I'm right. Only she wouldn't admit to it."

She smiles kindly at Katniss, baring her yellow teeth in the progress. "'s a good girl, though, if she lets herself be."

She'd claim this occasionally, and the young girl would always change the topic as fast as she could, for her words embarrass her. They're proof Sae isn't always right; Katniss may have been good once, but she isn't anymore, not in her opinion. She had also never been one to accept compliments without questioning, doubting them.

"She is," he confirms, causing her to jump, and her cheeks to flush a deep red. She turns her head away, hoping they won't be able to make it out in the dim light, and says,

"You're both hallucinating. Sae, I told you this stuffy air cannot be good for your mind, and it seems to have a bad influence on you, too." She glares at Peeta, all cautiousness forgotten, but he doesn't pay attention, because he also receives a wink from the woman. Luckily, Katniss doesn't notice, for it would surely worsen her mood.

"Ain't the air," Sae states. The girl is about to object, counter and tell her there's no other explanation, when suddenly, there's a cry coming from the entrance.

All heads whip around. Cries, shouts, they are not uncommon here, in the Hob, where the drunkards celebrate and the trader fight over prizes. Sure, usually they try to be quiet, so no one will hear, but sometimes they shout at each other. Even murder in here would not be the most shocking thing. It's happened once or twice, and the victims have been buried beneath a loose wooden panel, hidden from the eyes of justice as well as witnesses.

Some rise from their seats, or walk from behind their counter to their costumers, like Sae. Some stay where they are, like Katniss and Peeta. Some take cautious steps into the direction of the man. Katniss can't quite make his features out; his hair is untidy and greasy, his beard covers the lower half of his face, but doesn't go further. She cannot guess his age, nor does she recall seeing him, but all this is secondary now.

Finally, he stops his incoherent shouting, as he spots a table and swiftly climbs it, light footed as Katniss wouldn't have expected.

"The mistress' guards," he yells, once he's atop and has risen to full height. "They're searching every house! Searching for her son!"

* * *

**Alright...this may be the last chapter for a while. I'm going to be gone from Friday on, and I doubt I'll get internet in the next three weeks. I'll try my best to write and update the next chapter till Friday, but I can't promise. I'm very sorry. I hope you can forgive me:)**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11:

At those words, even the last man's attention turns to him and every man, every woman, every child in the building move their feet, forming a circle around the one on the table where Ripper usually provides her costumers with white liquor. Ripper herself is to be found behind her counter, her elbow placed on it, her head supported by her hand, the stump of her other arm as usually useless dangling from her shoulder. Interested but slightly absent, she nips on a bottle containing her own alcohol. As if to suppress what's happening.

"They storm in, upend every table, chair and commode, leave your house devastated, but before, they threat you. Tell you you're going to be arrested if you turn out to be hiding him. He's fled his home and duties, and everyone abetting this crime will be punished as greatly as the crime committed was."

Katniss' eyes widen, until they look twice their real size. She can only imagine what this threat means, what is going to happen to the poor devil who's been deceiving the witch. Although surely no one would dare, would they? She's known the people from her villages to be more of cowards than heroes, and for them it's every man for himself. Willingly, knowingly, they wouldn't betray her.

"I advise everyone who knows only the fraction of a piece about his stay, sell him out. For if you don't and they find out, mercy will no longer be a word they know of."

This, for sure, is real. It's the way everybody would behave, if purely out of fear. She herself wouldn't know if she'd make the heroic choice -again- if it came down to her own survival…or worse. For death couldn't be worse than torment and agony.

She doesn't make the half-turn she should to see Sea's face darkening, her lips next to Peeta's ear immediately after, she doesn't hear a voice that may cut through marble whisper frantically all but incoherent words into it. Hastily, her face hard as a stone, Sae's long fingers loop around his wrist and pull him away from the scenery, slowly so no one shall notice. Not even the girl right in front of him.

And she doesn't. She stares rigid at the man, who -she only now realizes- has a fresh lash gracing his lower arm, an angry read streak on the otherwise pale skin. Horror fixes her gaze onto it. Whips are not unknown to her village, but uncommon. The crime committed must be something horrid as murder for guards to crack the whip. And beat it onto a bare back.

She takes a step closer, the wood cracking beneath her boots, audible through the silence in the room. To her utter relief, no single head turns her way, for the same second the girl closest to the man, whom Katniss recognizes as Leevy, someone from her closer neighborhood, cries out.

"Did they do this to you?", she shrieks, in a tone that might have had everyone covering their ears on another occasion, but not this time, for there are more horrible things in the world than a voice may ever pronounce.

The man's eyes, if possible, narrow even more, so they're almost closed when he answers, "I tried to block their way when I wanted into my house. Claimed there was nothing we are hiding, which there isn't. So the guard lashed out. Told me next time, it wouldn't be just my arm. So…," he lowers his head as if in shame, "I granted them access."

And then her feet go into action. Because this scenario, she can imagine herself in. Not letting them enter their home to protect Prim, her mother, even Peeta. Although, not unlikely even, he might just throw himself in front of her. As redemption. And also, Katniss has a feeling her family, perhaps including herself, has grown to him. As he has to them.

Her hand can merely grab for who's standing behind her afore she starts pushing through the crowd, ignoring the outbursts of pain and anger, as well as the grunt of protest from behind her. Only half way through she realizes the voice is male, but too deep and harsh to be Peeta's. Although, her brain refuses to see him protesting like this. She's never heard these curses out of his mouth; they'd probably made him flush in embarrassment if he were to hear them. Peeta doesn't curse -never has once in the month he's been with them.

She turns around while still elbowing people aside, and rests only for a moment, out of shock, when she sees the man behind her. His hair is greasy, his eyes stormy and from his mouth floods a scent which is almost as repulsive as his words are. She lets go of his -how she now notices- all too hairy wrist while putting her hands up, as if in surrender. Only she isn't surrendering. It's more out of disgust. They're still damp; he must have spilled some kind of liquor across his arm and drops of something that smells of whine is dripping from his beard. His voice is slurry, confirming the drunken state of his she assumed, as he hisses,

"Finally observing properly, are we? Not that lad of yours, am I?"

She recognizes him only now, spitting those obviously meant to be insults at her. Mixed with some drops of she doesn't want to know what. He is the man that sold her the pencil. She knew she wouldn't like him back then already. She didn't know there'd be a time where she'd loath him.

"Where is he? He was standing right behind me."

To her dismay, he bows down until they're at eye level, and leans in as her mother would years ago when she'd peck her daughters cheek. She moves away swiftly, glancing around as if to make sure no one saw; but they didn't, somehow they're too occupied by themselves, maybe finding their children. She must have sent them moving when they realized what she was doing without noticing.

The man grabs her wrist, and bile rises in her throat. Can't he just answer her. He must know. He must have seen him go. Maybe home, to Prim, maybe he was thinking faster. But wouldn't he have pulled her with him?

"Damn it, girl," he says pulling her face to his. Not being able to help herself -he has about one foot on her and thus is far too strong, though to his intoxication- she succumbs. After all, what can he do in a hall full of people? Surely he wouldn't rape her. He wouldn't. At least she could try biting him when he's close enough. Or kicking his shin or…other regions that'll hurt him without a doubt. For she isn't certain they'd notice. Not for the first time it occurs to her how one can be in a room full of people and utterly alone at the same time.

Only when he moves from her cheek to her ear does she even guess his real intention. And when he begins to hiss into it, words fast and if she wasn't listening carefully, trying not to miss a single word, barely understandable, she knows he isn't going to misuse her -though no one would judge her for the assumption, it has happened more than once in the Hob. Trust him, though, she does not.

"Was time for him to vanish. Haven't pieced it together yet? A strange boy coming from the woods without memory, a boy searched a mere month later? Can't make the connection? Thought you were a smart one."

Katniss' eyes grow with his every word. One revelation and it can have such an effect on her. But it's clear. It should have been obvious to her from the very start. A million questions swirl through her head, and yet it feels empty. There's a pang in her chest, as if she'd been betrayed. Only this is bunk. She saw the sadness and forlornness in his hollow eyes; they weren't sparkling the way they should be. They never were, even when he seemed happy. He never quiet knew where he belonged, and this isn't something that can be faked. Not over this period of time, anway.

"Y'know what that means? They," he gestures to the people surrounding them, spilling out of the Hob and running home through their families, "will remember once their first shock is gone, too. And don't you believe they'll cover up for you. Get your family and hide, if you know where. Don't waste a second in taking a thing. You're good at sneaking off, aren't you?"

Normally, the indirect exposure of her hunting trips would have angered, perhaps even scared her. After all, this is punishable by death. But there are far more important things on her mind right now. Also, she has a feeling, however unreasonable it might be, this man isn't out to kill her. Otherwise he wouldn't be warning her. Why he isn't, she doesn't know. But it doesn't matter at the moment. Wonder, she can later.

She nods once, indicating she understand, and then bites her lip. A question's a the tip of her tongue, and she has a feeling if she swallows it, it'll be like a heavy weight inside her stomach. And stay there.

"Where is he? Where is he going?"

The man lets out a bark, and she supposes it is the way he laughs. And he's laughing at her. Her face gets red; not only from embarrassment but also from frustration. He's wasting her time, time she doesn't have, but she can't go afore she knows.

"Answer me!"

He lets out another puff of air before saying, "Surprised you care." Katniss snarls, unconsciously but he sees. "He's somewhere safe. Don't worry 'bout him. Worry 'bout yourself. Now go."

She doesn't grant him or his sarcastic tone another word or even gaze. Her feet beat against the floor as she pushes through the crowd, forward, forward, never glancing back, ignoring shoves and curses and men. Once there's fresh, cool air, not the heat of umpteen bodies and the dust of coal surrounding her, setting her free, her movements get faster, faster, until she thinks she's is flying across the ground. Back to her family, afore the guards come, afore people remember. She's aware she racing against no other opponent than time, and humans can rarely beat the fastest, most uncontrollable enemy they have. Never, truly. It'll always get them; if it's only on their deathbed.

However, Katniss hopes to win temporarily, and delaying its catch just a little longer. So it won't be too late for Prim, her mother and herself. Otherwise deathbed might be just the right word.

And then, she almost stops as she realizes there's no way they'll ever escape them. If they run, it'll make their fault -even if they never hid him on purpose, but who would believe three refugees, fleeing from guards and explanations- more obvious to those who aren't listening open minded, and she knows there'll be none of those. They will catch them. Even if they manage to flee the village, if they succeed in getting to the woods unseen in all the jumble, they will eventually be caught, for the whole sentry of the witch will be out to find them; and there must be many, if there's never been any uprisings against her reign.

Hopelessness rises in her; fate is playing its cruel trick on the young girl again. Maybe as punishment for her disbelief. Maybe to prove its existence to her. How can anyone ever truly know why fate directs life the way it does? There can be pretenders, there can be sages, there can be trees or men as old as time itself; they couldn't tell if they wanted to.

She's worked all these years to keep her family alive; she's broken the law every night to ensure their survival, deprived herself of hopeless sleep and comfort and now she's going to lose the battle against death because she thought to be noble once? She saved a life and now she's being punished? Ironic, isn't it? She could save a stranger's life, but not her own. Tears of frustration threaten to spill over, but she wipes them away angrily as she doubles her speed, despite her protesting, sore muscles, not used to a spring this long, despite the sweat running down her forehead and the ache in her feet as they crash against the hard ground time and time again.

She tells herself she should hate him for it, she wants the anger and betrayal she felt before to reignite, so she can blame it on someone, anyone really. Her failing isn't something she can just confess to herself, because she can't, she can't have failed her father, her sister, even her mother -no matter if the latter failed her after her father's death and is a scapegoat to place the blame on, too.

But she has to, and much worse, she can't regret her actions no matter how hard she tries. She can't forget his agony filled cries from that night, she can't forget his words and smile, she can't forget his paintings. She can't forget a single detail, and all those details put together make it impossible for her to regret. Not even her attraction to him, not even smoothing back his hair when he was having a nightmare as she came home afore dawn broke, when she couldn't bear waking him, or seeing him in pain. She can't regret remembering him leaning into her touch and relaxing as for a few hours, peace overtook him completely. The bubble she'd managed to create for Prim, she gave to him in sleep.

Back then it hadn't felt important, not memorable, not worth telling him in the mornings, not worth telling anyone. Only now, as her skin fights against the icy wind, the tears and snot it causes to draw from her, her long braid like a whip against her back, boosting and hurting her equally, she perceives the value of those little, unspoken gestures. Both hers and his. Often she didn't really notice a soothing smile, a kind word to Prim, the detail he put into every sketch like it was the most important thing in the world, or just plain ignored it.

And for all those small things, she can't hate him. They somehow overpower her want to feel anger -it's not his fault. He didn't remember. Why he was in the woods, she still doesn't know. She doesn't care, either, because abruptly, her steps stop as she's frantically banging on her own door, hoping it won't crack with the combination of fists and feet hammering against it.

Her hands are raw from clapping against the wood, her toes must be spilling blood from the way her nails bore painfully into the flesh, but she is beyond caring. She has to get to Prim, to her mother, and she has to come up with something to protect them, take the blame off them. She prays they've both heard the news and are home already.

She almost punches her mother, causing her to retreat into the house, when the door is opened. Katniss storms in and shuts it so quickly there's a loud sound, and she swears she hears a cracking, before collapsing backwards against it, panting uncontrollably.

"Katniss!", her mother exclaims. "Are you…?"

"I'm fine!", Katniss bursts. "Now anyway."

Her mother's blue eyes widen, half in confusion half in sorrow at her daughter's behavior. "What is that supposed to mean?" She glances at the door, as if it wasn't the same as always. "And where's Peeta? Haven't you taken him with you?"

She nods, unable to form words as she rubs every kind of fluid off her face with the back of her hand. "Haven't you heard it?", she manages to breath out in between gasps.

Both her mother and Prim, who's just come running from the door upon hearing her family's conversation, shake their heads, and Katniss sighs as she sinks a little further down onto the floor. The woman and Prim make to grab her arms and pull her up, but she weakly stammers a "I'm OK", and with a huff pushes herself off, clinging to the last bits of the adrenaline which had driven her here and to the door's knob.

"He's the mistress' son. And they're searching for him. To punish him for something I'd describe as treason. You know what that means."

She expects confirmation of her words in her family's faces, but she gets none of this. It may be a lot to take in, she ponders, and unexpected as well. But clearly lain out to them, as it hadn't been to her. Instead, her mother clutches the back of the chair closes to her, and falls onto it limply. She brings her hand up to her temple, rubbing it while squeezing her eyes tightly. Prim just stands there, unmoving, disbelief written across her face, as clearly visible as the sky's blue on a flawless spring day.

"He's her _son_?", her sister gapes. "How do you know? Are you sure? Are they going to kill him?"

Slowly, Katniss lets go of the knob, and lifts her arms slightly, as if balancing herself over to Primrose. Her beautiful face is distorted in sorrow and shock, and her large blue eyes shine with unshed tears. Katniss puts her arms around the young girl and lets her chin rest on Prim's head, even though doing so is becoming quite difficult, as her sister is growing. But it doesn't matter now, for both of them need each other's comfort and for once, Katniss can't lie to the younger one. Not if she will try to save them from the guards' chains.

"He is. How I know isn't important. But I do. And other people will, too. The guards will come looking for us the second they're told and when they are, you have to pretend you didn't know until they told you. And you didn't know when he was here, which is the truth, so it should be easier on you. You too, mother. Maybe they'll believe us."

Only now it is she realizes how she shouldn't have told them. Their surprise would have been real and much more convincing. Although the guards may fall for Prim's charm, she knows neither if that'll be enough, nor if her mother won't mess things up. And she can't have her, because the moment they realize she lied about one thing, they'll no doubt believe she lied about everything else, too, without giving it a second thought. And worst of all, Katniss can't say she'd blame them. Wouldn't she figure the same in their place?

And just then, there is a bang at the door, louder than Katniss' had been in all her panic, causing the sisters to part their embrace and a voice forceful and viciously dark booms through, "Open, or we'll break the pathetic wood."

"Coming," their mother says, to her older daughters astonishment and slight admiration, gathering her wits together and fixing her face, dispelling the worry that covered her features just seconds ago.

When the door cracks open, it takes only a matter of seconds before both guards have pulled her by her arms, keeping her in place with their strong muscles, and she is not even fighting them. In actual fact, she looks to stunned to even notice what's going on; it all happened so fast.

Only Prim's cry of distress brings Katniss back to reality, for even she couldn't believe her own eyes for a second. One of the brown headed, bulky man retaining their mother speaks up.

"All of you are arrested. You girls better follow us, otherwise we'll have to kill your precious mother in order to get our hands free. Wouldn't want that, would you? But first answer this question: Where is he?"

"Where's who? And why are you doing this? We haven't done anything to displease anyone, how will you justify this ambush?"

The woman's voice is somewhat calm, much to her daughters' amazement, but there's a fearful edge to it, which Katniss assumes given her current circumstance isn't particularly unreasonable. She, herself, wants to scream, tear, lunge at them, to free her mother. But they're too tall, too well built, too strong for her to take. If she had her bow, she would be at advantage, she knows, but in the long run even her weapon wouldn't help her. So she just sits there in shock, half real half fake.

The guard only laughs cruelly, striking her with his fist, causing the girls to flinch, but her mother just to hang slackly in their grip, her body convulsing but her face not betraying one single emotion.

"You know fully well what I'm talking about, what you've done. You know, don't lie to me."

"No she doesn't." Without realizing it, Katniss has risen, forcing the men's eyes onto her, her head held high and proud, her face as hard as theirs. And her voice isn't even shuddering, as she is inwardly, when she says,

"She can't. Neither of them can. We haven't told them. It was all me. I knew. I knew who he was. We pretended a memory loss so they wouldn't ask questions. He's a good actor. We thought that maybe you wouldn't find him here, concealed as my patient. Let her go, she's guiltless. Take me instead. I take the full blame."

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**Yup, I'm back. Finally. You have no idea how much I missed writing. And I really hope you like this chapter, cause I have to admit, I do. I don't know, am I cruel? **

**Anway, I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I'd be overly grateful if you told me you opinion.  
**


	13. Chapter 13

**So, before I start the chapter, I need to tell you that my updates won't be as frequent as I want them to be. School is getting in the way, and it's important, because although I won't leave this year, it's a kind of leaving certificate (complicated German school system, you don't have to understand), and I might need it in the future, so please have some understanding that I have to focus on my grades more than on writing. I'll do my best, though:)  
**

**This chapter, I'm gonna say it before, has violence in it. Not too much, but this is the chapter (together with the second one) which the story is rated T for. It turned out a bit darker than intended, but I think you can live with that...**

* * *

Chapter 12:

There's no sign of hesitation present on his face. Instead, a smile as cold as the devil's is forming, stretching across his dirty features. Violently, he shoves her mother away from him, and the other one is following his example blindly. Katniss can feel herself being yanked out by hideous arms covered in scars, hidden only by hair. More she can't make out, but than again, she feels somewhat dazed anyway. As if this isn't happening to her but to a stranger, and she is only watching. From above, from the girl's eyes, from her living room, she doesn't know. But she isn't inside this girl's body, her face isn't being slapped by his calloused hands, the red welt is forming on another girl's cheek. No fingers close around her hair and jerk her head back, and the silent scream, only evident in her parted lips, isn't coming from her, either.

But somehow it is, because she can sense the pain now, the hard boot against her shin, her stumbling and she can hear the men's laugher. She only prays they've closed the door and her mother and sister aren't forced to watch. She doesn't dare glance back, in fear of what she might see.

"You're a pretty one, aren't you?", one taunts her. Katniss snaps her head, trying to reach his arm with her teeth. He just laughs, spit falling onto her head, and pushes her away forcefully. "Let's see if we can get her to let you entertain us."

He looks at her body longingly, his tongue darting out as his wets his lips, and caresses the side of her face with his nails. Katniss shudders in disgust and flinches back, from his fingers and his gaze. She turns her head away, biting her lip so hard it draws blood she can taste. His face so near hers makes her want to disappear, or vomit, or both at once. His indication nauseates her in combination with his touch to a level even opened human corpses don't, and afore this day, that was on top of her list.

When his hand follows her turning body and brushes the side of her waist, trailing upwards, she begins to panic. She tells herself she's being unreasonable; he wouldn't do it in a street, next to another guard, for the whole village to see. He must have some shame.

All the while he's tearing her forward, the other guard is pushing. She feels his hand on the small of her back, shoving roughly, partly with his fists, partly boring his nails into her vulnerable flesh. At a particularly hard slap, she coughs, spit flying onto the other guards arm. It -her cough- was coincidence, surly, but his hungry gaze turns into a disgusted one -one Katniss finds a lot easier to bear.

"How dare you?", he shouts as his hand makes contact with her cheek with a loud clap. It reminds her of what he did to her mother but strangely, she finds it much more bearable being done to herself. She doesn't like watching those she loves get hurt. Blood rushes to the side of her face, where the angry mark is, though, and there's a searing pain, for the other guard decided to punish her by beating her forward, sending her tripling against the other man.

That one only snorts this time. "Think to fight us, do you?" He smirks cruelly. "But it won't work. Even if you fled, they…" he points at the gaping people in the familiar dirty street, their hollow eyes widened, their jaws clenched, they hands balled to fists.

"…would catch you right away. If only out of fear."

Then, he turns his body to the gathering crowd. "You see her?", he shouts, shoving Katniss again. She'd suspected she wouldn't just be led away, secretly and without another word. The unfolding scenario pretty much suits her imagination; her only comfort is that by humiliating her, they mortify themselves as well. For not being able to catch the boy with her. For letting him escape in the first place. This even brings a small smirk to her lips. True, they may have her, but they did not catch the fugitive. She will be punished, she knows, but they will share her fate.

But, being the foolish man he is, he doesn't see. He's far too dull-witted. But unfortunately, far too strong to be tricked also.

Forcefully, he grabs her wrist and rips her arm up into the air, holding it for everyone to see. And she knows he expects her to slump, to make herself small. But she won't give him this satisfaction. No, she straightens herself, cranes her neck, tilts her chin upward, facing the sky. They won't have her small and weak; they'll have to take her proud, head held high, saving the last dignity she's left. And strangely enough, that brings the smirk back.

"She's guilty. She's the one to blame. She helped the traitor." The fist lands on her face again. She feels her head snapping back, but notwithstanding, all she does is grin at her tormentor. Perhaps she's lost her mind already. Perhaps it's just her way of shutting this -after all, some sort of feeling- out. Even the taste of blood from biting her tongue doesn't seem to bother her.

"She defied your monarch. She's a power-whore. And who says that's not the only kind of whore you are, huh?" He yanks her back by her hair, and, odd as it may be, Katniss can only wonder. Wonder when the real pain, the feeling of humiliation will come. Is it the fact that she knows of her innocence? Is it a kind of numbness taking over her senses? Or is it the awareness that death will come either way; that it doesn't matter anyway.

Only when the first man lifts the three fingers of his left hand to his lips afore holding them out to her, as if reaching for her, she knows why she's still strong. For he's not the only one. More and more start to follow his example, until every man, every woman, every child is raising its hand, a silent goodbye but more so, a demonstration of unity. She's as stunned as the guards are, for this hasn't been seen in her village for ages. It's always been every man for themselves, and she briefly wonders what changed. Do they, by some miracle, know the truth. Do they see it in her pride? Or are they seeing her father, are they giving a last honor to his daughter, who may have tried to take vengeance for his murder?

She doesn't know and somehow, she doesn't care. All that matters is their symbol and, struggling against the guards loosened grip -out of surprise she assumes- her left hand finds its way to her mouth, and she stretches her arm as far as it will, showing them her appreciation.

In this moment, the whole village -hers included- fingers stretched out, it's as if there's some sort of magic between them, some bond stronger than the torment they're under in the air, and it's almost as if they can grasp it.

What she doesn't know, doesn't even suspect: draped in a black cloak, pulled down to hide his blond curls and bright eyes, held back by hands that gripped hers just an hour ago, one shutting his mouth forcefully, one slung around his middle to prevent him from running out to her, and concealed by a dark house's shadow is the figure they're really craving. Fingers reaching for her just like everyone else's. A prayer on his lips, his teeth sinking into the flesh of his captivator, who isn't one truly.

He wonders if she can sense it, if deep down in her heart, she's aware he's with her, trying to get to her, trying to rescue her from fate. To sacrifice himself the way she did. She is much more braver than him, in his opinion. But the man clutching his body tears him away slowly, as the guards gather their wits and the bond is broken, and fury is taking of his senses. Fury at the guard's words, at his actions, at the girl's suffering, but mostly at himself, for this is his fault, alone his, and not the drunkard holding him, not his mother's men or even his mother herself is the person he loathes most on earth; it is the boy trapped inside his body. The traitor.

"That's why," the man behind him whispers harshly.

* * *

Her cheek is swelling constantly, her back is aching and her arms and legs are covered in scratches and blood. She barely recognizes the chapped lips or her throbbing head. Slowly, her eyes open, first one than the second. Almost immediately, she shuts them again, for they're not used to the utter darkness surrounding her. No ounce of light, not lamp or torch is illuminating the room she's in.

She realizes she's lying on her back and -as if not to startle her body- moves her arms until she can prop herself up on her elbows. It hurts, sure, the pressure on the wound noticeable, but it is alright, nothing compared to the burning in her calf, or the now increasing pounding in her head.

She doesn't dare shifting, but, this time prepared for what's to come, lifts her lids again. The black around her is still consuming, somewhat frightening, and she has a feeling her pupils are dilating to the maximum, but neither she nor anyone else can see.

She tries to remember how she got her, where here is anyway, but only numb images appear in her mind. Her village, raising their fingers. More beats, herself tripping whenever a fist made impact with her body. Her wrists ensnared by some metallic bands -chains?- , being bound to a horse's tail, or just being pulled by the man riding its back, she doesn't quite remember. Running, stumbling, to keep up with the beast's speed. Collapsing right in front of the gates, the world going black.

Black like the dungeon she obviously ended up in. Away from light, which she hates. Hunting in the darkness took away her father, she'd found Peeta in the darkness of the forest half dead, and now she is caught in a room with an indefinable size and height and no color at all. Only gloom.

And when suddenly she feels a foreign warmth, which can only be provided bythings such as flesh behind her, she jumps. She shoves her body away from the unknown presence in her cell, backwards, backwards, until her head hit's the thick wall signalizing the ending of the room.

"Well, well, well, so what have we got here? Why are you flinching? Looks like we're cellmates now, wouldn't we want to avoid a fight at such close proximity?"

The mocking voice laughs at her own words, but Katniss isn't quite sure if there's really humor in it. It isn't as though she wasn't somewhat startled, either. More of the opposite, actually, even if she wouldn't want to admit that. From what she could make out, her "cellmate" must be female, although her rough tone is suggesting otherwise.

"Who are you?", she asks, her own voice hard and strong, not wanting to appear a little weak girl.

At this, there's a chuckle audible. "Your cellmate, didn't you listen brainless?"

Forgetting her injuries in an instant at the insult, Katniss shifts into the woman's direction, so at least she's feeling as though she's facing her. She's rewarded by a searing pain in her back at the sudden move, but she chooses to ignore it, as well as the quiet groan escaping her lips.

"I was asking for your name," she snaps. "And mine is Katniss, not brainless."

There's a smirk in the other's voice as she replies, "How sweet you think I care, brainless. I'll call you that as long as it fits. Be creative, think of a name for me. It's not like there's anything else to do anyway."

Katniss snorts at the woman's stubbornness, but already she knows her earlier statement had been right; fighting is something they should avoid, for they have to live with each other, whether they want to or not. And no matter how much she despises this fact right now, this woman is her only informant; the only one who can provide her with the answers to her questions.

"Fine, if you don't want to tell me, don't. But isn't there anything you'd be willing to tell me?"

"You really care, brainless? There's a lot I can tell you, much of which shouldn't interest you in the least. You know, asleep I liked you better. Not asking questions that are none of your business." Although meant to hurt her, as the woman's words may be, they don't have the effect on Katniss they probably ought to. Maybe because of the sarcasm, maybe because there is no real hate behind them, she can't tell.

Unnerved, she is though. Why does she have to make this place even more unbearable by her mere presence?

"I liked myself better asleep, too. No outrageous woman talking to me like I've lost my wits."

The guffaw can be heard echoing from all three walls. Katniss glares in the direction, but she knows the woman doesn't receive it. Somehow, it's quite satisfying to her though.

"Oh brainless," she says, still chuckling. Katniss isn't truly sure what amused her so much; to her it had been just a snide remark.

"Seems we got the same wishes. Want me to knock you out again?" She laughs again. "But no, didn't you call me outrageous? Well, what would you say if I told you I'm completely naked? Wouldn't want something_ impure_ as that touching you, would you?"

The click of her tongue emphasize her words, and to her slight embarrassment, the girl can't help but flinch. Unfortunately, if just to tease her, the woman shifts closer, following her.

"Why are you doing this, huh? What have I done to you? Does that give you some sick sort of satisfaction?", Katniss asks. She hates the undertone of desperation in her voice, but thankfully it's pretty much covered by mocking harshness, barely audible.

"For fun, nothing, you're just that unforunate to have to share this dungeon with me, and yes. What do you expect? I've been sitting on my ass bored for the longest time, for they can't use me as a wench anymore. Not till the scars have vanished."

"You're a prostitute?" Strangely, she can't put it into other words. Although she knows the woman's indication of her being pure is confirmed now, she can't help it. She's somewhat right, after all.

"A whore brainless. A dirty slut, an old bag. Judge me, I'm just doing what I'm good at," she claims proudly and for the first time, Katniss feels some kind of respect for the woman, despite the irony her brain recognizes.

"Willingly?", she can't help but question. She knows it hadn't been the smartest move when the other snorts.

"Yeah, of course. I'm imprisoned in a cell with an idiot when I'm not selling my body willingly to a fucker who beats me to oblivion. Isn't that exactly the life every girl wants?"

And for the first time, there's an image of the woman next to her forming in Katniss head. No facial features, no physical signs at all. Just a character. Her voice doesn't sound a child's anymore, she must be around twenty, otherwise they wouldn't have her…how did she put it? Sell her body. Soon she's going to be too old, too. Katniss may be somewhat pure, but that doesn't mean she doesn't see the loosely clad women on the streets, trying to earn some money for their bodies. There's a stubborn look in the woman's eyes, they're hard and betraying no emotion. Her lips set into a straight line. They have no form, not really, her eyes are colorless, but something about her just seems defensive. Much like herself, she realizes.

And suddenly, all this is shattered. Because subconsciously, her brain had been working on piecing the puzzle together. Why she is here, locked in a cell with a woman with no dignity left.

"Is that what I'll become, too?", she asks, her voice, much to her anger, shaking slightly. The walls reflect her words in a way the trembling can't be overheard, which worsens it further.

"A wench? Honestly, I don't know. They told me to teach you the basics, for this one man said afore you die, he wants to have you repay for something you did, although he wouldn't tell what it was." Katniss, though, has a feeling it isn't about any violence of hers against him; that had been minimal, due to the lack of abilities. No, she thinks she may know. But then, why would _he_ care? The witch would, for sure, but how would it affect him?

"But I want to know. What happened? Why are you here?" Why should she answer? Not one of her questions had been answered by the woman. She'd told her it's none of her business.

"You'll get my story," she decides. "But I want yours first."

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**I'm not going to ask who you think the woman is. It's pretty obvious I guess:)**

**Alright, let's hope the next chapter can be up faster than this one...in the meantime, be kind and leave me a review?**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 13:

She'd hoped it would stop if only their conversation was honest, more so serious. But the woman chuckles nevertheless, and Katniss begins to think how maybe, she can't do otherwise.

"Think you're a very smart one, do you brainless?" She laughs dismissively. "Try to find the irony in my words."

There's a sound of shifting when she carries her body across the ground, her limbs smacking against the hard floor. "Name's Johanna. Don't have a home. Everyone I love is gone and I'm in here because I helped one of them. Don't need to know more."

In her opinion, Katniss' jaw has every right to drop. Even though she can't see in the room every light seems to have been swallowed from, she can almost imagine Johanna's bored expression and her indifference audible in her words. She is surprised however, for not in a million years had she thought to have her agree. That had been part of the reason why she had offered to lose even a single part of her story to this woman at all. As far as Katniss can tell, it isn't any of Johanna's business.

But a broken promise is a sin, and as much of a sinner as she probably is, if there's truly a purgatory between heaven and hell, she can at least spare herself a few moments by being honest. Apart from the fact that really, it doesn't matter anymore. She's going to be dead in a matter of days. How could a disclosed secret harm her in death?

But still, she's known this woman for about half an hour, and she can't have herself come to terms with spilling her life to her.

Suddenly, at the word life, she is reminded of Johanna's own cause for being here. And a somewhat frightening thought comes her.

"Did you kill him?" She hadn't meant to voice it. Not in that blunt, shocked tone at least. No, not at all. But still, she can't prevent herself from anticipating the answer.

She doesn't think about the consequences. Doesn't realize a yes could as well mean her own strangulation, sharing a cell with a murderer. Doesn't notice the way Johanna's body tenses, for she can't see her. Doesn't smell the change in the air, for how should a human find desperation with their nose?

"I should have. Whatever she'll do when she finds him will be far worse than being at death's mercy. Whether you believe it or not, death knows this word. She doesn't. But he didn't want to see, didn't want to believe. Said if she was to try and find him, there'd be the last piece of care for him in her." She snorts, obviously in disdain for whoever she may be talking about.

"He always wanted to see the good in everybody. I always told him "See where that's going to get you". Who thought the answer would be out of here? All because of me." Aside from her condescending tone and the way Katniss can practically hear her eyes roll, there's a slight admiration, and some emotion she can't quite make out.

Katniss almost misses Johanna spinning around angrily. "Damn it, brainless! Now I spilled my guts to you, and just guess, I have no idea why. You own me a story I ought not to forget."

And just like that, she's back to the woman from afore. And the girl, although she realizes it doesn't make much sense, finds that's a lot less frightening, and a lot more endurable.

"You won't," Katniss tells her. "I'm not much of a story-teller. But I'm in here for a stunningly similar reason -similar to yours I mean. I'm trying to help someone escape from the witch -our monarch."

Just as the words leave her lips, she clamps her hands over them, sealing them, as if to take the words back. How could she have said the dreadful curse out loud? If they'd heard her…then what, she asks herself. They're going to execute her? They will do so either way, won't they? There's no preventing her, Katniss Everdeen, from death, and for the first time she can fully focus on that fact, understand it with all its meaning, face the mere thought, the heavy possibility deep in her heart.

She is going to die. The knowledge is half frightening, half surreal. Nothing. Nothing will await her. Nothing she knows. No green trees catching the sunlight with their leaves, no glistening water with small waves on a warm summer day, no taut bow, no arrow pointed sharply, ready to fly. No familiar voices, no faces she's ever seen before, if anything at all.

Only fire. Fire she's certain there will be. Flames that will catch her body, draw her sins out like smoke, when they will vanish into the air like they'd never existed, or maybe the devil himself will catch them, send the smoke to the surface above, to earth, where they will plague another human being. She will scream, she knows, she will feel every ounce of pain she's brought to others, the fire will tear at her skin, reach her heart, her soul, and burn till there's nothing left to burn. Till she's freed of evils and regrets, till her heart is pure as it should be, as Prim's is, till her soul is patched together, no longer shred, no more cracks will keep it apart.

Perhaps dying won't be bad after all. She deserves to suffer, but selfishly as she is, she wishes she could be spared the pain and skip to free of sins and the devil's brood without the torment it will cost.

"So witch you call her, do you? But creative enough to get a fine name for me, you were not. I'm disappointed."

Katniss wants nothing more than to reach over and shut Johanna's mouth, too, for she couldn't have talked in a louder volume. May as well at least have an easy death, which she wouldn't if the guards were to hear Johanna. But it's true, she can dispense with the rack as well as the stake gladly. She doesn't need hanged, drawn and quartered either. The gallows alone would be worse enough, but if someone pulled her feet, they'd be bearable. If she was allowed to choose, she would take beheading. Fast and she's certain she'd feel as much as an animal does -did- when pierced by her arrow. But an arrow isn't an option. She's too proud to be killed by her own weapon. And even if a fast death might be a cowardly choice, she's guiltless, isn't she. Shouldn't she at least be able to wish for a painless execution?

"Would you shut up? Or do you want to get yourself killed alongside me?" She glares, her eyes glistening, but the woman can't see, so it's worthless.

Thus, Johanna huffs amusedly. "And possibly meet you again in hell? No, thanks a lot. And by the way, now my only option of escape has been deprived, too. Afore, I could still hope I'd be in hell one day. Compared to this, it's probably heaven. Warm and I bet a hundred to one, there'll be more light than here. It'll come flooding at me and I can bath in it while finding a new cellmate. Who knows, may be the devil himself?"

And Katniss can't even figure out if she's serious. Which she could be. After all, can the devil be worse than men raping her? Sure, if the women back home knew of her thoughts, they'd spit onto the tips of their right hand's fingers to prevent god from punishing for hearing her sinful consideration.

"That would have made you happy, wouldn't it?", she responds curtly.

She, of course, can't see the woman's eyes narrow, her lips press into a small line, only parted inches to spit out, "Happy is a word which has lost its meaning a long time ago to me. In my world, it doesn't exist."

Her life must indeed have been wicked even afore her time in the cell, if she'd prefer hell over it. And  
thinking about it, Katniss isn't even sure what happy means herself. Happy -a foreign word. An emotion of delight, mirth and luck. The outcome of a moment which fills you with joy, where light is streaming through your body and the world seems like a perfect place to live on.

And when, when has the world ever felt perfect? She can answer that. The last time she saw her father. Because for her, he embodied happiness and life.

"It doesn't in mine, either."

And through the consuming darkness, she misses Johanna's smile. But not her words.

"Equals just once, brainless."

* * *

Katniss is exhausted. Not only does the loss of daylight slowly begin to really sink in, no, her cellmate told her after a short period of silence how she needed to practice. Practice…the business of a whore. "It's what we dirty girls do," Johanna'd told her with a smirk plastered across her face, which was clear to her even though she couldn't see to confirm.

The first thing the woman had felt the need to teach her was to "keep her damn mouth shut", except he ordered her to do otherwise. Katniss had felt bile rising at the mere description Johanna provided her with when she asked which circumstances may demand an open mouth. She also hadn't missed the smirk in her cellmate's voice.

The woman began to paint every scenario imaginable -or not, for she could not understand why human beings with a functioning mind would do, much less enjoy _that_- with her words to the shocked girl, until Katniss finally was convinced passing out after a few minutes of searing pain would definitely be the best; she wouldn't remember afterwards and wouldn't feel during it.

Also, she'd made an agreement with herself to keep her eyes open and stare at him the whole time, so he could see the blame, disdain and hate in her eyes, even though it might not bother him, despite Johanna's advice to look away, or shut her eyes, shut everything off. She'd asked the woman if she never wanted to keep some dignity. Only to earn herself a humorless chuckle. "Dignity? A nude whore in a dungeon teaching the purest person on the face of the earth the basics of harlotry? You deserve your nickname more than you realize. You should seriously sort out where to draw the line."

And she'd had to admit Johanna had a point there. Although spoken out loud, she'd never have this. But the woman's other advise, not to kiss him on the lips, or allow to be kissed, she took wholeheartedly, for she didn't want the salvia of the most disgusting man she'd ever met on her lips, didn't want his taste to linger on her tongue until the flames of purgatory would finally have devoured her.

More so, for the first time the lack of light in their prison relieved her, for it hid the blush that crept up her cheeks a few minutes into their conversation and darkened steadily further, until she was fairly certain it was as scarlet as a freshly plucked, dead ripe cherry.

She couldn't understand how Johanna could talk about these things, things Katniss didn't even want to think about, so openly, but part of her was glad that the embarrassment was solemnly on her part, for two stuttering voices would have surely been even more uncomfortable and awkward.

But now, slumped onto the floor, her eyes falling shut again, she anticipates her dreams with horror. She knows the images Johanna set into her head will reappear, a faceless man will do all these horrible things to her, will touch her, see her, and she will loath him every second of it. She dreads sleep like never before, even right after her father died. She only needs to close her eyes to feel the disgust in her, the vomit in her throat, the tears that will threaten to spill over, tears she will hold back because she is too strong to let a man like that see her cry. She won't allow him to see her weak or vulnerable; she will go down proud and strong, head high, the way it was when they led her to the castle.

And just in this moment, there's a clatter, heavy steps approaching, a rusty key turned in an used lock, the sound of metal scratching the floor of stone as a the iron bars of their cell are moved, and just as orange spots replace the black ones behind her closed lids, a rough voice echoes around the walls.

"New girl, I've been ordered to take you with me." And fear rises in Katniss. No nightmares. Worse. True coming nightmares -ones she hasn't even had yet. She doesn't dare open her eyes, hoping this will reveal itself as a bad dream.

"There are a few questions we'd like you to answer."

And she almost feels bad for her sanity when there's a rush of relief flooding through her.

"Seneca!", Johanna's mocking voice exclaims. And at this, Katniss knows this is no evil dream she'll awake from. So hesitantly, frantically blinking, she lifts her lids, bringing her hand up to shield her eyes from the sudden light of the torch caught between a tall man's long white fingers. The mixture of orange and red, bringing out yellow and white strokes every second, the glowing wood ready to ignite, lead up to a hairy arm, half covered in a slid down black sleeve, which is extended to a plain, dirty gray gown covering his body. Beneath must be his trousers and stockings, but she can't see them.

His arm is above his head, holding the flame high, lightening his black hair and straight beard, and especially the corners of the cell much rather than the ground with the two females. One which he appears to know. His gray eyes widen, his pale skin whitening even further, giving him the impression of a ghost.

"Not here to see me this time? What a shame. If even you have lost interest in me…you as a torturer. Bet you don't see many girls 'round here."

Katniss, who'd almost forgotten about Johanna's presence, spins around, only to be faced with the most unwomanly woman she'd ever seen, including herself. One bushy eyebrow is raised, while the other one is resting right above a dark brown eye, which despite their color -a color that should be filled with gentleness- reminds her of a million daggers, a mischievous glint in both of the wide-apart eyes, a smirk plastered on her thin lips.

Her hair, which's color is like the chestnuts dangling from the brown trees in fall, is cut short and spiky. Katniss has never seen a woman with short hair before. Her skin, though covered in red scares and purple welts, is a healthy -at least considering their circumstances- light brown, so light it may be just the orange falling onto it.

The man snorts. "I have no time for your games. Her chamber is ready, and it'll be taken out on your lovely cellmate if we arrive later than necessary."

Johanna rolls her eyes and shrugs, but there's also some sympathy -sympathy, not pity- in them as she watches Katniss being roughly pulled up to her weak, struggling legs, and her mouth widens to a small grin when she sees the girl snatching her wrist out of his hand.

The torturer has the torch still lifted above his head and the girl, who snaps an "I can walk by myself", makes out a long corridor, which they can't seem to reach the end of. As they pass more bars, they hear groans of protest at the sudden brightness, moans of pain, smell urine and blood on the walls, and see the slumped, maimed bodies against the walls or, in some cells, curled together on the scarlet hay, some held back by chains, some clutching the bars in their hands, shaking them, distorted faces crying for help or closed eyes, mouths muttering to themselves, hands pressed to ears and bodies rolled together like a hedgehog, only without the prickles to protect them. Bare, defenseless backs and heads.

Katniss wants to bow over and vomit. And she isn't surprised in the slightest when she does. As a wicked way of revenge, the only truly, she faces the seam of his gown, were his shoes must be hidden beneath, if he's wearing any at all. When her breakfast leaves her stomach, she feels some sort of relief. One thing less turning it.

He glares conceitedly at her, but in his eyes -to her deep satisfaction- she can make out the shatter of his pride as he wipes his gown on the wall swiftly, and nearly passes the cell she's furiously being pushed into only seconds later.

The room is not as plain as the others are. More torches stick to the walls, giving her a view of the chains bound to the roof and a rock in the wall. In one corner is a wooden woman with creepy, too wide eyes, too unreal to be human. Katniss swallows when she recognizes the opened side, the prickles peeking out; this woman is an iron maiden. She shivers at the mere thought of what pain it could inflict upon her.

But right in the middle is what she dreads most; the most horrifying instrument of torture in her opinion. A rack. The chains which will tie the victim to it dangle at either side, taunting her.

She snaps back into reality at the loud bang of the closing bars, to be met with the hard face of her torturer.

"So, I'm going to ask you a few questions. We can do this the easy way, where I ask and you answer. But", he turns to the instruments, "we can also do it the painful way. It's up to you to choose. If you want my opinion: I strongly recommend the easy way. It's less unpleasant to both of you."

His stale eyes bore into her. "So girl, tell me. Where is he?"

And Katniss knows it's the wrong answer. It's the truth, but wrong all the same. Only she wouldn't correct it if it was a lie. "I don't know."

Seneca smirks mercilessly. "What a shame, girl."

* * *

**So, personally, I think that's the right way to end the chapter. For more, I'd have to rate this M and honestly, I'm not quite in the mood to write a torture session. I just wanted the element in the story because I don't have the Hunger Games.  
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**Would you tell me what you think? I'm quite anxious about this chapter...  
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	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games**

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Chapter 14:

She doesn't remember how often the whip cracked down onto her back. She doesn't remember his questions or her own inevitable screams. She doesn't remember him tearing apart her shirt, nor does she remember her own thoughts and words.

She only knows because of the angry marks all over her body, her sore throat, her opened shirt, which she's only still wearing to save the last of her dignity. Only one of his questions sticks still in her mind: "Where is he?" He asked this over and over again, and every streak of the lashes is a reminder.

It hadn't been the rack. But the whip had only been a slight improvement. And, as it is, she doesn't believe that has been their last session. And clearly, her prison, now dark as night again, is no safe haven either.

The tender contact of skin on skin, and the following shoot of pain rolling through her body, send her jolting upwards, and sinking back as quickly, held back by the pure agony, the red flesh that once was her back.

Not afore lashing out herself, though. Her hand, though weakened, makes impact with someone's side with a satisfying smack.

It doesn't take long to occur on Katniss whom she just slapped. After all, the choice of people who could be in her cell is limited to two, and one of them would mean a torch of light. Though, she highly prefers the other's companionship. Johanna, at least, doesn't have an instrument to torture her with. And if she did, Katniss is fairly certain she wouldn't be the first on the woman's list of people to torment.

An angry cry can be heard, though, followed by rubbing, which Katniss assumes is Johanna acting on her human instinct. "Seriously brainless, I understand your hesitance to be touched after Seneca's loving treatment. But if you weren't covered in wounds already, you'd find a welt at your cheek now. I was trying to free you of your garment without causing too much pain. But nothing is so hard as a man's ingratitude."

Katniss can't help but silently agree with her. Whenever she -or Johanna, obviously- does something selfless, something considered right, they get punished for it by some unknown force. The better the deed, the worse the punishment. She snorts at the irony. If only it worked the other way around.

"It was a reflex," Katniss justifies herself, although she is not sure if she should. Only then does she remember what the woman said afore spreading her wisdom. "And what do you mean you were trying to free me of my garment?"

Johanna rolls her eyes, even though the girl can't see her. She finds the younger is quite predictable -an open book.

"Just imagine, it's easier to loosen it when the blood's still fresh, not completely dry. Thankfully the material isn't the best, so I can still tear it, but you must get it off, otherwise the building crust will enclose it. And let me tell you, it'll be no fun getting the fabric out of you."

She hadn't noticed the stale smell before, neither had the metallic taste overtaken her tongue. And if there was the last bit left in her stomach, she is sure she would be puking by now again.

Of course, modesty can't play a role now, but still Katniss feels uncomfortable as Johanna reveals her side to the cold air, which hits it with full force, and bite her lips so hard it draws blood not to protest loudly as she hears the ripping and feels the shirt fall to the floor. She is stripped to the waist, and although the woman can't see her, Katniss has the urge to pull her arms up to her chest and shield it from foreign gazes. However irrational that might be in her current situation.

She is snapped out of those thoughts by the other female's voice saying, "Now we're going to get down to the nitty-gritty."

And then she feels her skin being torn down with what she suspects to be a piece of garment. She grits her teeth to prevent a scream from escaping her lips, but she can't suppress a groan. Only know is it she realizes how weakened her body is, for the next rip causes her vision to blur, as if to block out the agony, and the following sends her body flat to the ground, blackened out.

* * *

When her eyes open again Katniss immediately feels the itching beneath her torso. It's familiar, although her senses refuse to tell her what exactly it is. Carefully, as not to stress too many muscles, she moves her hand to the dry blades she's lying on. Crunches them between her fingers. Until she remembers.

Hay. A horse's food has become her pillow. There's no pressure on her back, so she's assuming she hasn't been blanketed also. She finds she can't lift herself anymore; thinking about it, doesn't understand how she managed afore, and contents herself with removing the hay piece by piece.

She has a feeling the cold stone underneath, as well as the icy breeze hitting her wounds should bother her, but they're soothing. The pain's still prominent, but there's a slight relief provided by air, and the mere allusion of improvement is worth a mint to Katniss, for her back feels as though it is on fire. Hot, merciless flames grazing the surface, never going deeper, never ending her suffering, but burning the skin till they reach the nerves and can torment those.

She's lost in her thoughts for a moment. Allows herself to think of Prim, whom she'll never see again. Of Gale and her mother, who'll suffer the same fate as young Prim. She thinks of the joy they'd brought her, even though happiness had ceased to exist in her life. She thinks of Prim's laugh, so much like a million bells, and her mother's first song after her husband had died. She thinks of Gale's smile, reserved but honest, and the smell of Sea's stew and her crooked, teeth baring grin winds its way into her mind.

Then there's her father. Guilt sweeps through her as she realizes how much she's forgotten about him, although she vowed to never forget. She can't recall the exact shape of his eyes, the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled and even the stunningly beautiful voice that made the birds stop singing has faded her memory. Right then, she believes she deserves every lash she's gotten. How dare she forget?

Forget. This one word brings her to the last person she's ever cared about. She wonders where he might be right now. Ironic how it's the very same question she was tortured about. All she knows is that he's neither caught nor dead. She'd share his fate immediately. No, he's somewhere out there, maybe somewhere safe. She hopes somewhere safe. She hopes her last sacrifice has not been in vain. She wonders if he might be thinking about her this very moment. If he wants to take her place, foolishly.

How could she know he is outside the walls of her prison this very moment? Clasping the rocks with rough hands, raw desperation flooding right through his fingers, breezing between slits to the girl in the cell, caressing her back, comfortingly, as though it was the boy himself. But there's no one to whisper in her ear and tell her the well kept secret of distance.

He turns to the men escorting him, masking the pain on his face with cold words. "If your plan doesn't work, she is going to end in the flames."

One nods sadly, reaching out to touch the boy's arm. He flinches back. He won't let him. He is supposed to suffer his mother's punishment. And he's being prevented from doing so by the man trying to comfort him. "She is. And so are you. But it's our last hope."

Peeta eyes the ground with deliberation. Hope. What is hope? An illusion? He used to think it's strong. It can overcome fear and agony. He isn't certain anymore. He faces the man, his blue eyes boring into the stale ones.

"It is. Only I wish we wouldn't need to take the risk."

The man grins tiredly, his face seeming stony, older than his years. "There's never been success without risk."

Peeta glances at him strangely. "You'll never know until you've tried it."

The man sneaks his hand onto the boy's shoulder, grasping firmly. "And isn't that an argument for me?"

All four heads shoot up as metal makes contact with rock, but only one pair of eyes is able to see the reason.

She didn't notice the flash of light getting greater while coming closer to her, too lost in thought. Only the bars scratching the floor as they swing open, and the sound of flesh hitting the cell's ground allow her to become aware of her surroundings.

The body, recognizable only by the spiky hair covering her head, spins around at a surprisingly fast pace, snarling at the man shielding her way to freedom.

"I hope you're going to die with us." She spits the words, drops flying like venom onto his bared feet. If only she could poison him with them.

He guffaws almost immediately. Katniss can't help but silently agree with him. Johanna is at his feet, disgraced, and he is as safe as can be. Under the witch's protection. Untouchable. No matter the amount of strength the woman may carry with her.

"Oh, but I'm not. To your comfort, you know he is. He'll inflict no more pain upon you. But then again, maybe the purgatory will."

With one last laugh, one last glare received from Johanna, and one last fist taken to his shin as an aftermath of his mockery, he disappears in the long corridor, taking the light with him.

Johanna snorts.

"I know you're awake brainless, no use hiding it."

And Katniss shifts her head to grimace weakly at her. It isn't as powerful as she'd like it to be, but she can't master enough of her face to manage her trademark scowl.

Johanna actually grins at that. "You can be so glad unconsciousness saved you from these bastards. But nothing will spare you my last words."

Katniss' hand rubs her temple, trying to comprehend the woman's words. Words. Last words. Last. The indication hits her like one of her arrows would an animal's skull.

"When?"

Somehow she doesn't need to explain. Understanding passes between them, for the first time.

"This noon. With you and one of the idiots. When he didn't want you, they tried to give me to him. But my life's worthless. So I refused. And he said I'm too stubborn." She smirks, as if enjoying filling Katniss in on the most recent events.

"The other man chuckled at him in that cruel way of his, afore telling him he deprived himself of his last pleasure. The widening, fear filled eyes were the last thing I saw of him. And believe me, that's the satisfaction I'll think of while they're making the flames burn me to ash. I'll devour his screams."

She's cruel. There's pure hate in her voice. And as sinful as it might be, Katniss sees her words as justified. Is it allowed to find joy in a man's death? Probably not. But why should she care? While ending his life, they're ending hers.

"Don't they want to use me to find him? And what's with you? Couldn't they have killed you afore already?"

She's never been sensitive, and formulating isn't one of her biggest strengths either. But what other, kinder way of blurting the questions would there be, really? Sometimes, words are like gifts from heaven, given at the right time, in the right place. And when they fail one, who says heaven isn't busy presenting another searching soul?

"I can't answer them all at once." Johanna rolls her eyes at her younger cellmate. She can only wonder why Katniss would care now that she's sentenced to die this very day.

"First of all, the witch is going to ask you one more time before bringing the torch to the stake. She thinks if you don't answer this question in the face of death, you won't do it at any time."

"I don't even know!", the girl calls. "I don't."

"Shush," Johanna hisses. "You think I care? I doubt you'd tell them if you knew, so the outcome's the same."

Katniss sarcastically thinks how much the woman must be thinking of her to come to this statement.

"I, on the other hand, can only tell them how to help someone escape. Or who else helped him. They know me long enough to realize no amount of torture can get me there. My punishment was being downgraded to harlotry. They said it wouldn't make much of a difference, since I'd already been sleeping with half of the men in the castle, but being called a whore is still considered a disgrace." She huffs in annoyance. "As if that'd matter to me.

"But anyway, I believe they're going to kill me now because I refused to do my job and because I kind of helped you; a traitor. They've got a real reason to get rid of me. Even if the people here are too scared to get violent, to rebel against her reign, they wouldn't have tolerated my execution easily."

If she's honest, Katniss can't fathom why that would be the case. Johanna isn't the most cheerful, charming person she's ever met. Far from it, really. If there was a complete opposite of Prim, it would be her.

"Why?" What is there left to lose? She feels free, suddenly. Free to ask any question, free to do anything she's ever wanted to, because it doesn't matter. She's doomed anyway. She wants to run, even though she knows she can't. She wants to feel the wind whip her hair, wants everything to become blurred as she flies by.

"Because, despite all differences, I'm one of them. They would have seen how defenseless they really are. And they would have become even more scared. But too much fear leads to anger. Uncontrollable anger. And she knows. She can't risk it."

Katniss' eyes widen. "So she searches for a reason until she's found one?"

"Not necessarily," Johanna denies, shaking her head. Somehow, both of them have developed the habit of using body language even though they can't see each other. It might be some kind of comfort to them; to move. "It depends on the concerned person, on the character. Thus, you see why she'd want to get rid of me."

And she smirks with satisfaction, as if this was an accomplishment. And maybe it is. That, however, depends on one's point of view. Many things in life do.

"I do," the girl admits. "And I've been a target since I lied."

Johanna gapes at her. Lies are sins, sure, but Katniss' lie must have been more than a mere violation of the rules of heaven. For if the witch was devout, her husband would still be alive. Thou shalt not kill. She follows her own laws.

"What did you lie about?"

Can she tell her? Trust her to keep this secret? Who would believe the woman if she decided to spill it? What would be her motives?

But she can't risk it. Her family's lives are at stake, and they're the last things of value to her. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"But doesn't that mean you're guiltless?", the woman asks, exasperated as to why she wouldn't want to save her own skin. There's only been one person to get her to help him, and although strangely, she can't bring herself to regret.

"I'm not. Only not as guilty as they might think." Her tone is brave, braver than she feels inside.

"Well, if you can't tell me on your deathbed, then you won't at all. The witch is right in that matter."

They startle as they hear something soft flatter onto the floor. Muscle slumps against the metal of the bars, and a deep voice, one neither of them has heard afore, commands,

"Dress in those."

The mixture of a snort and a chuckle escape Johanna's lips. "Want me to be decent, do you? I'd rather die in the same clothes I was born with."

"Do what I've ordered you to." And with that, he stomps of, making sure the females notice his dying down footsteps as he vanishes into the direction of light. He doesn't need a torch; he's got an exact map of the corridors right in his head.

"They'll make you, if you don't, you do realize that, don't you?", Katniss says, reaching out for the garment. She finds it to be one piece, instead of two, like she'd assumed. She is glad to finally have something to cover her bare chest. Although she isn't a fool; she knows it's doused with some kind of poison, to prolong her death and suffer.

The woman huffs. "Then they're going to have to make me. I'm not going down without putting up a fight of my own, however small it might be."

She finishes her sentence the second the cloth is around Katniss' body. And the girl notices a slight pressure on her head, managing to ignore the pain in her back as the crust is scratched by the rough material.

"There's a hood." She announces, surprised. Do they think them such cowards? Wanting to hide their faces from the world? She angrily pushes it down, until it falls to her shoulders.

"Yet another reason to refuse. I won't die faceless," Johanna claims proudly.

"Neither will I." Bitterness laces with sadness in her voice. Her family will see her face, most likely, being torn to ashes. She vows to herself not to scream or betray any features, no matter the pain. Her own last fight.

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**The first thing I've got to say doesn't have anything to do with the story, much rather with the date. I was shocked today, because someone asked me: "What's so special about today?" Can you believe that? I told her immediately, but still I can't believe it. How can someone forget after only eleven years? **

**I'd like to say I'm sorry. Sorry for the victims of the attacks on 9/11. Sorry for their families. I'm so sorry. But despite all the death and grief, we shouldn't forget. Or much rather, because of them we shouldn't forget. I'm getting sentimental, I know. But I have no other words to express what I'm feeling so...you'll have to live with this.**

**So. Now: I really hope you liked the chapter. I'm glad I got it done in one week, but I don't think I'll manage the next one as soon. Three exams in one week, and I have to study.  
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**Tell me what you think, please.  
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